


Breathe in, Exhale

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Altered Mental States, Angel Blood, Angel True Forms, Asphyxiation, Blood, Blood Drinking, Discipline, Dominance, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Multiple Relationships, Mute Sam Winchester, Present Tense, Something Somewhat Like Drug Use, Stockholm Syndrome, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 20:17:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 25,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam, originally intended to be the Boy King but deemed as useless, is handed off to Alastair. He spends his time under the demon's shockingly tender care, the "princeling" of Hell's most talented Archdemon.<br/>(All characters participating in sexual acts are 18+)<br/>Permanently incomplete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moth

**Author's Note:**

> TAGS SUBJECT TO CHANGE.  
> For this reason, _please_ keep an eye on the tags and warnings. I will make a point to mention any possible warnings at the beginning of each chapter, as well.  
>  Playlist: [here](http://8tracks.com/glass-jars/breathe-in-exhale)  
> There's a tag on my tumblr account for the fic, with inspiration etc. [here](http://softgrungeprophet.tumblr.com/tagged/breathe%20in%20exhale%20fic)  
> I have not put the archive's "graphic depictions of violence" tag onto this fic yet because there is not much shown violence, and it mostly consists of people being covered in blood without the context of injury or violence. However that may change in the future. This story may have a slow beginning but it will not continue forever as Sam and Alastair hanging around. There is a real plot, which is part of why this fic has been sitting for two years.  
> I will be posting the plot outline as the fourteenth chapter but this fic will not be continued past chapter thirteen.

"Pick one," Azazel says. He raises a hand to point. "I don't want you anymore. I have my boy king."

"Why don't you just kill him, then?"

"Well I've become rather fond of him, you see."

"I am willing to take the boy... If he'll have me." Slow and hot like lava.

Sam looks between the row of demons, wide-eyed. He's heard the reputation of this one—he can't go with a master of torture like that, he just can't—

"Just don't kill him." Azazel's voice fades.

Everything goes black and Sam loses consciousness.

He can't breathe, he can't see, he can't—

The hood is lifted from his face and tossed to the side. Breathing remains difficult.

"Well, well, well." That voice again, like glass being polished with thick, clouded honey. "Aren't you a pretty little thing? Azazel's boy, and now you're all mine."

He closes his eyes. If he could whimper, he would, but his training has been much too thorough. And he thinks, I'm not Azazel's boy; I'm not Lucifer's boy; I'm not your boy. He breathes in noisily through his nose—the closest he has been able to get to making a sound in the past five years.

"Well? Say something."

Sam shakes his head.

He gets a sharp slap to the face, and when he flinches and drops to his knees in subservience he remains silent. Stares at the carpet-covered concrete for a moment, then looks up at the tall, gangly man with deep-set eyes staring down at him as if at an experiment he is particularly invested in.

He twists his mouth into the shape of a snarl, nose wrinkling, but there is not growl to accompany it.

Alastair crouches and tugs Sam up by the collar. "This is not right..." He shoves Sam's bangs out of his eyes and looks into his eyes as if searching for something, and Sam shudders. He doesn't like those eyes. But the voice is worse... "Have they silenced you, Sam Winchester?"

Sam closes his eyes, and Alastair takes that as confirmation. He hauls Sam to his feet as if he weighs less than a bag of rice. Steadies him on his feet and turns his head this way and that, long-fingered hand hot on Sam's cheek, a burning moth. Sam breathes shallowly through his nose.

"Mute, hm?"

"What did they do, train you?"

"They did, didn't they?"

"Would have been preferable to know that beforehand."

The scrape of Alastair's shoe against the gritty, thin carpeting fills the dark air and he steps away—he leads Sam without actually instructing him to move. His hand on Sam's cheek burns and he smiles to himself when the boy instinctively steps where he's meant. The benefits of not just biokinesis and other powers, but the ability to influence another body in even the slightest amounts.

Sam sits on a white plastic chair. One of those bucket-shaped chairs they use, presumably, to torture students and bruise their tailbones. It's not really white, though, not anymore. It's black and brown and rust-colored with little hints of red where still-damp blood adorns its pocked surface. A little bit seeps into the seat of Sam's jeans. He squirms. It doesn't help, and he focuses on the middle buttons of Alastair's blue dress shirt.

"What did they do to you?" Alastair seems to flicker, and suddenly there is a steel stool—of the taupe-painted variety you find in science classrooms, with a plywood seat—under his hand. He settles on this, and looks down at Sam. "Stuffed a gag in your throat and called it good?" He smiles, lazily. "They trained you, through... what?" He leans closer and hooks a finger under Sam's chin. Closer and closer until his nose brushes Sam's cheekbone, and he pulls in a long breath. Scenting. Hand to the face again, on the opposite cheek, and Alastair draws back a fraction of a millimeter. "Torture?"

A draft sneaks along the floor and wraps around Sam's ankles to chill him—Alastair raises his free hand in a careless motion, and the open door at the end of the classroom slams shut. The breeze ceases.

"You can't very well inform me of Azazel's secrets if you are unable to speak, now, can you?" A low, purring hum. It seems as if Alastair is joking, but Sam can't be sure. Alastair taps Sam's cheek with the tip of his middle finger and it's like a brand. The heat of Hell, concentrated into that small space. "You have been trained, I presume, so that the more pain you are in, the quieter you become?"

Sam nods. Shaking.

"Of course." A gusty sigh, and it smells like burnt wood and pewter.

"I don't want that. I want the noise."

"Oh, well."

He leans back and the stool creaks under his weight.

"How old are you, boy?"

Sam shakes his head.

"Eighteen? Nineteen? Twenty?" Alastair knows each guess is incorrect, but he enjoys pretending to guess nonetheless. It's evident in the gleam of his shadowed eyes.

"You are seventeen years old and two months old. Raised by John Winchester, found in a stained motel room by Azazel at age ten, raised by him from then on." His expression grows thoughtful.

"Raised and trained by demons, and yet... You remain astonishingly  _ human _ ."

His face clears.

"Ah."

He strokes the skin to the side of Sam's mouth, down along his jaw. Taps under his chin. "He waited and grew too dissatisfied to make you his boy king." The demon leans back and settles both hands on his thighs, seemingly aware of every molecule of the universe, though all he does is sit. "No demon blood for precious Sam until he reaches the right age, isn't that right?"

Sam keeps still.

"No wonder."

"Well," Alastair stands. His shape shudders and for a split second it seems as if he's not there anymore, and then he is but his stool is gone. He reaches his hand out for Sam to take, and Sam feels compelled. As if he couldn't resist even if he tried. Sam's hand feels small in Alastair's, though the demon is only slightly taller than him. Alastair pulls him close—tucks him against his chest, with one spidery hand on the back of the boy's head, and one curled at his waist. "I think I shall like to make you my prince, in that case." The room warps around them. The air grows colder, and so Alastair's touch grows hotter in comparison. For a moment, there is no ground beneath Sam's feet. Only high-reaching flames, and Sam is terrified that he'll fall into a lake of fire and burn away.

But concrete pushes up against his feet. He stumbles, but Alastair's grip keeps him upright.

Silence, down here. A basement, it seems like. Something creaks, as Alastair shifts, but Sam can't see what it is with his face pressed against the demon's shirt. A bang, and he jumps, and metal groans.

He looks over his shoulder.

A big boiler, spitting out heat, presumably with a belly full of fire.

When Sam looks up at Alastair again, Alastair chuckles deep in his throat like an old oiled engine.


	2. Born again, Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting more sexual. Warnings for asphyxiation. Possibly dubious consent.  
> Playlist: [here](http://8tracks.com/glass-jars/breathe-in-exhale)

"Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful."

Not so much as a whine from Sam's mouth but he cranes his head back, lips parted, arching. This is a stranger, but he doesn’t care. He doesn't care—he likes to feel good. If that means slipping into a bar with an ID that says he’s two years older than in reality, so be it. If it means letting himself be pinned to the bed of the bartender, upstairs, so be it. The bartender is attractive, anyway. A little on the short side, but his eyes, when Sam meets them, are like polished brass, and burn holes into him.

And he calls Sam such nice things.

Over and over and over, a litany of praise. Beautiful, so perfect, gorgeous. Sam likes that. It's a different tone from the way Alastair calls him, different from his molasses-dark, veiled compliments. A different kind of heat.

Less like a fever and more like the sun.

It makes that tiny red spot in his mind white out and fade for a moment.

What makes Sam wonder, though, as he listens to the bed springs squeak with the tiniest of shifts, while the bartender moves slowly enough to be noiseless but for his whispered words—what makes Sam wonder, is how easy it all feels. Shouldn't there be resistance, messiness, discomfort, guilt, and so on and so forth? But no. Nothing. It's just like with Alastair, in a way. A little too easy.

Maybe the bartender is something more than he says.

His grip is like two brands on Sam's hips, and Sam feels like lightning all over, which is strange. Very strange. Tingling through his blood vessels. Hot hands all over him and—he feels, for a moment, like he's ceased to exist completely, and that's never happened to him before but he thinks he might like it.

It also cements Sam's idea that this bartender is not human.

The bartender doesn't kick him out, right away. He makes him lie still in the bed, and personally cleans everything.

The short man actually ends up, on accident, tidying up his entire bedroom while Sam drifts halfway between consciousness and sleep. When the man realizes how carried away he’s gotten, he's sitting on the floor in front of his bookshelf in the nude, alphabetizing books while Sam watches.

He startles.

"Sorry, kiddo." He drops into bed beside Sam. "I like you. Do you want to stay here all night? I'll make you some waffles in the morning."

Sam shrugs. He signs, "Maybe."

"Alright, you're staying." A crooked grin, and the bartender lays down beside Sam and pulls the blankets up. He reaches over to turn the lamp off, and the room is doused in tarry darkness, split only by the neon letters of an alarm clock in the corner. "Hope you don't mind cuddling, 'cause I'm a burr!"

Sam breathes out the closest thing he has to a laugh, as the man wraps arms around him, surprisingly strong and warm and sturdy.

Very, very different from most of the other men and women Sam has been with.

Sam leaves with the sunrise, and meets Alastair in the basement where they live.

It's a cold and damp location, all concrete and mildew and broken machinery. It's the fourth place they've stayed in the past year since Azazel gifted Sam to Alastair with only the instructions, "Just don't kill him."

It's his least favorite location, if he's totally honest. Wine stains the floor too easily when the glass breaks against the cement. And that's a shame, a shame. But Alastair smiles broad and overly sweet when Sam picks up every little shard and the narrow stem. There is wine on Alastair's shoes, so Sam runs his shirt along the leather to dry it. Alastair crouches and runs his hand back through Sam's hair. It's getting shaggy, curling into his eyes and past his ears, brushing against the top of his spine if he tilts his head back. Which he does, as he straightens his body and sits on his heels.

Alastair just presses his thumb against Sam's bared throat—pushes down on the soft skin there.

"Silent, silent." A click of his tongue. "Such a tragedy. I would so love to hear your pretty voice."

Sam shakes his head. Alastair's thumb presses harder—he wraps his fingers around Sam's neck, loosely, gently, almost like a caress, though his thumb still holds pressure. Moves down and pushes at the hollow above Sam's collarbone.

Sam lets out a shallow, hissing breath through his nose.

"July 2 nd , 2001. The time is..." Alastair thinks for a moment, as if feeling the atmosphere itself. "8:09... 8:10 am." He stands and pulls Sam up with him and his hand remains around the young man's throat. Fingers brushing against the base of his skull, thumb still bearing down on that soft spot. Harder. He moves into Sam's airspace, like that. Settles his other hand light like a venomous butterfly on Sam's narrow hip. "You are nineteen years and two months old." Tightens his fingers until Sam's breath catches in his throat.

"Fossa jugularis sternalis." He smiles and slides his hand up Sam's side. It catches in the fabric of Sam's shirt for a moment, but only a very short moment. It joins his other hand at Sam's neck and curls together with it, all symmetry and rough fingerprints.

Sam is lightheaded.

"Open your mouth, sweetheart."

Sam does as he is told.

Alastair leans forward, not to kiss Sam, but to breathe his air and hiss it back out—It's like being filled with smoke, especially combined with the dizziness floating through Sam's skull. Alastair's touch, preventing Sam from breathing, simultaneously keeps him oxygenated enough to remain conscious—perks of demonic powers, he supposes. His scalp tingles and his knees weaken, but Alastair holds him up, mouth over mouth, hands like a vice.

"Come, come." Alastair's low mumble is no less discernible despite the proximity of their mouths. He bites Sam's lip and releases him. Sam pulls in a ragged breath—Alastair brushes a finger across his torso and breathing immediately comes easier.

He follows Alastair into the darkest corner of the basement. The coldest, dampest spot. It's where Sam sleeps, most nights, or where he entertains Alastair's thoughtful musings and thirst for knowledge of the inner workings of Sam's body.

The demon's hands are fiery. Where he touches, goosebumps follow, as they are exposed to cool air in the wake of his hot fingerprints. He names off scientific names, as he goes. Bucca, laryngeal prominence, thorax, umbilicus, crista iliaca, et cetera.

"Breathe in," he murmurs against Sam's stomach. So Sam breathes in deeply—allows his belly to rise and his lungs to expand. And Alastair says, "Exhale." So Sam's stomach dips and he lets all of his air out in a long rush.

It's two parts clinical, one part sexual.

Alastair listens to Sam's heartbeat and respiration, while his long fingers prod all over and Sam lies on the threadbare sheets.

Much too much.

And still, he keeps silent. It's more than habit—it's reflex. It's ingrained. Survival instincts. Alastair can coax him with rotten-sweet words and threats and praise alike, and Sam won't vocalize. He gasps, but his larynx plays no part in whatever breathy sounds he makes, however loud and desperate.

Silence has been instilled in him in such a way that it might never leave.

Alastair doesn't totally mind, though he would like to hear Sam's voice in order to learn more about his body and in order to confirm further domination—dragging just one broken cry from that throat would delight him to no end.

But no.

He focuses, instead, on discovering what, exactly, is required to overstimulate Sam's senses to the point he goes completely limp.

It involves a bit of contortion on Alastair's part, but is worth it in the end.

For the sake of knowledge.


	3. Crushed and Filled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Induced sleep. Definite use of weird demon powers. More sexual stuff. Blood mentioned--not Sam's or anything, though.

"Name and date of the latest male mate. Location as well, please, princeling." Alastair wraps Sam's hand around the pen, and hands him the little red-covered notebook they list information in—men and women Sam sleeps with, food he eats, when he uses the bathroom, when he sleeps, where he wanders during his free time.

Sam nods, minutely. Writes slow and neat across the lined paper, careful not to leave anything out.

"Nick, thirty-six, widower. Accompanied by a group of friends, from Pike Creek, Delaware." Alastair pauses. "Height: taller than you." He raises his eyebrows at Sam, who hisses quiet laughter, eyes squinting. Alastair shakes his head. "Quite the little joker, now, hmm?" He snorts. "Build: like a block of cement." Back to Sam. "He sounds very sturdy."

Sam nods again. He tentatively reaches for the pen and paper, and when Alastair relinquishes them, draws a rudimentary picture of a barrel-chested man who looks like he can run through a brick wall. Alastair clicks his tongue. "You know who that is, don't you?"

"No?"

"That man, if I must guess, is the secondary vessel for the Morningstar himself."

Wide eyes, and Sam makes a face like a curious pup. He tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear and leans close.

"Would I lie to you?"

Sam shakes his head so that his hair flops back into his face.

Alastair chuckles. He pushes Sam's hair back, once more. Leaves his fingers tangled in it as he speaks. "Temporary housing for Lucifer, is what he is. If you are not suitable." He rubs the pads of his thumbs over the jut of Sam's cheekbones. Slips one down across Sam's smooth skin and presses it against his mouth—Sam's lips part and Alastair presses his thumb in, down against Sam's tongue and says, "I plan to make you unsuitable. You are mine, after all, not theirs. Aren't you?"

Eyelids drifting shut, Sam nods for what feels like the hundredth time that day. It's been an afternoon full of questions and words. He wants to go out and sit on a bench and watch the ducks swim by, eating stale cookies from the bag Alastair bought him the day before. He also wants to read more from his book on sign language. He's been teaching himself, and though he only knows a few very simple gestures, it's made communicating with strangers during his free time a lot easier.

Alastair leans into Sam's space, and murmurs, "You are a very tired young man, hm?"

Drooping shoulders and a nod—everything feels hazy, suddenly. Foggy and rimmed in white. Stiflingly warm and almost claustrophobic. Alastair is using his powers, of that Sam is certain. He wishes, somewhat, that he could protest, but he thinks to himself  _ I don't much mind. _ It's different from Azazel, and it doesn't hurt him.

Alastair may be frightening, and care nothing for personal space—he is a masochist and a sadist and extremely scientific, and he treats Sam like a pampered pet, but he rarely hurts him, and if he does it is often accidental. Not like Azazel and his minions, who put Sam through a hellish boot camp and tortured him until he no longer spoke. (Exactly the desired outcome—they wanted him silent. They gave him pain, and the more noise he made the more pain he received, and eventually, he muted himself and the pain stopped. Speaking is pain; sound is pain. Alastair, however, is... surprisingly... none of that. Despite his reputation as Picasso with a razor.)

"You mustn't think so intently if you want to rest, Sam." Alastair lifts him up in his arms, as easily as if he weighs less than a child. "Do you want some of your cookies?"

Sam shrugs.

Alastair repeats his question—indecision is not tolerated under his guidance.

Sam raises his hand in a knocking motion, for "Yes."

"Alright."

They settle into an old, broken armchair situated in a corner—this is their fifth home: an abandoned house in Wilmington.

Alastair holds Sam on his lap, and feeds him miniature chocolate chip cookies. Any crumbs that break away disappear into thin air before they can land on Sam's clothes, and for some reason the cookies taste a little burnt around the edges. Sam wonders, dazedly, if that is Alistair's doing. Probably. He tends to singe the air itself with his breath.

Sam doesn't want to sleep, but when Alastair lays him out on the mattress, he can't resist the tug of unconsciousness.

When he wakes, the room is dark, and he has a headache.

Alastair sits in a rocking chair nearby, staring. Watching over him. It sends a shiver through Sam's limbs. A face-splitting smile from the demon and, "Ah, you're awake." He rocks in the chair, and the rotting wood groans in protest. "Sleep well?"

Rolling onto his stomach, Sam buries his face in his pillow, drawing a laugh from Alastair. He squirms to be more comfortable. Peeks out at Alastair, whose interest is visibly piqued. Coy expression, mussed hair, wide eyes and rumpled clothes. He wriggles again. Catches Alastair's eye.

"Eager, aren't you?"

Sam pushes himself onto his back again. His shirt has been pulled up, in the midst of all his twisting, and reveals the stretch of his stomach. He blinks sleepily and lets his hands settle on his chest, fingers lightly curled.

"If you insist," Alastair rises to his feet and the rocking chair creaks. "I will indulge." He approaches the bed—drops down between Sam's legs, and the springs protest. He slides his hands down Sam's thighs, gripping so he can leave bruises, rearranging Sam so he lays sprawled out—arms above his head on the pillow, legs around Alastair's waist, head thrown back.

There is a reality shift. Alastair doesn't seem to do anything—but Sam's whole body goes lax. Careful, methodical caresses, like Alastair is mapping out his veins—and maybe he is. Sam wouldn't be entirely surprised. Alastair is, after all, the type to do that. He derives pleasure from cataloguing Sam's body as much as he derives pleasure from anything else. Possibly more, actually. Sex and the entire world seem to be secondary to categorizing Sam.

Sam loses track of time.

He loses track of himself.

Only becomes aware of his existence a long while later, alone in bed.

He stands up and coughs to himself—a step toward speaking, according to Alastair. He says that if Sam starts small with coughs and throat clearing he can become accustomed to making noise once more. Sam thinks he would like that. Would like to relinquish the memories of Azazel and take hold of his vocal cords to say, "I am Sam and I am not your Boy King." But he will have to wait. For now, he stands in the crumbling bathroom of the abandoned house, staring into the mirror, and does mouth exercises. He likes to make faces at himself in the glass.

He hears Alastair's voice in his head: "Associate sound with positive things."

Of course, Alastair is not home. Probably in Hell, doing his full-time job, or out in town somewhere terrorizing innocents. Sam tries not to think about it—knows how lucky he is that Alastair chose to spare him from torture.

Sam shakes his head. He returns to his instructions. Positive things. What positive things are associated with sound? Music. The brass-eyed man calling him beautiful. The reward Alastair gave him when he accidentally squeaked beneath him, once, on his birthday.

What else does he like? He likes cookies and the feel of hotel-room carpet between his toes and sunlight on his skin. Alastair's voice and fingers, and stepping into a cool shower when it's one hundred degrees outside. Watching puppies run. He thinks of those nice things. Coughs lightly and frowns at his reflection. Attempts to say something—he can manage a shallow whisper, but nothing else. "Speak," he breathes. Tightens his fingers on the counter. He remembers that beating himself up over it won't help so he relaxes and shuts his eyes.

One whispered word and a cleared throat is good enough. He eats a cookie and lays naked in bed with the curtains drawn, bathed in sunshine.

Alastair comes home around four, covered in blood. He materializes in Sam's bedroom and begins to speak while he unbuttons his damp, reddened shirt. "Progress?" He drops the shirt to the floor and it disappears when it hits the wooden boards.

Sam raises a fisted hand and sticks his thumb out sideways.

"Better than nothing." Alastair waves a hand over himself and becomes clean. He disappears for a split second and reappears in a new shirt. "Have you rewarded yourself?"

A nod from Sam, who brushes crumbs from his bare chest. He sweeps his hair out of his eyes and sighs.

"Do you want to go outside?"

Another nod.

"Well, get dressed, princeling, and you may choose a movie to see."

Sam grins and sits up, thrilling with excitement. He rarely gets to see movies, so an opportunity like this is one he won't pass up. He drags his clothes on as quick as he can and nearly trips over a loose floorboard in his hurry to follow Alastair downstairs. He takes Alastair's hand, shifting to lean against him as they walk out of the house, and clings close down the sidewalk. Few people are out, and no one pays them any attention.

Sam still feels a little exposed though. He's not used to being out in the open, even though Alastair gives him free time to go out on a regular basis. He's still accustomed to being isolated and locked away, except when he was strapped to Azazel's chair.

He shudders and clears the thought from his mind as best he can.

The sunlight feels nice on his skin.

They see  _ Shrek _ , because it's still in theaters and it isn't particularly action-filled. Sam doesn't understand some of the jokes, but many he does, because he's been spending a lot of time reading not only books but also magazines and newspapers, trying to inform himself of everything in the world.  _ The New York Times _ —he likes the crossword, especially—and  _ Cosmo _ ,  _ Harry Potter  _ and  _ Good Omens: _ he's read them all.

Outside the theater, as the sun lowers itself down the sky, Alastair wraps an arm around Sam's waist. "Did you enjoy yourself?" He looks down at Sam.

Sam gives him a wide smile and an enthusiastic nod.

"Good, good."

Alastair pauses.

"Can you say that?" He leans down. "Try to say 'good.'"

Sam gets a whisper out. Nothing more.

Alastair sighs, and Sam droops, unhappy. He fixes his eyes on his feet. He doesn't like when Alastair is displeased with his progress, because he just looks so  _ disappointed _ . But Sam is trying. He really is. When his nightmares wake him at two am he tries to hum and when he practices in the mornings he really gives it his all. But it's not quite enough.

Still, Alastair doesn't get angry.

They go home and spend the night as they always do


	4. And breathe again.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing I feel needs warning in this chapter. Flirting and stuff with "Rick" and Sam. Sam's feeble attempts at ASL.

"Do I know you?"

Sam glances up from the bar. He blanches. He would recognize those dollar-coin eyes anywhere. The way they glint, like the man they belong to finds something immensely hilarious but refuses to tell exactly what.

And the matching smirk.

Sam flushes hotly and looks away. The most he can communicate with signs is "You're Rick." Well, he gets as far as, "You're Ric," but gets stuck on the letter K, because he's still pretty shaky on the alphabet. He taps on the bar and nods toward the bartender, face crinkling in confusion. Rick tilts his head, one eyebrow raised, but then his face clears and he grins like a coyote.

"You're confused, 'cause I was a bartender in that town in Ohio?"

Sam nods.

"Well, what can I say? Felt like a change." He shrugs and slides his hands into his pockets, leaning on the bar. "And I guess fate led us to meet once more, eh kiddo?" He winks, and it shouldn't be charming, but somehow it is. In a corny way. He moves a little closer to Sam. Looks him up and down. He says, "How would you feel about a little re-enactment, if you know what I mean?"

With a soft huff, Sam shrugs. He catches Rick's eyes once, and turns away, and blushes 'til his whole face is scarlet. But he ventures another glance, and an embarrassed grin—his dimples show, and he can't help but scoot a little closer to the other man.

Rick looks up at him, all mischief and amusement. He loops his arm through Sam's and tugs him down so he can whisper in his ear. "My hotel room has a killer bed."

Sam almost chokes on his beer laughing.

Rick lets out a snort and pats Sam on the back, still smirking. He lets his hand drift up until he has a handful of Sam's hair between his fingers and suddenly they're kissing. But not in the way Sam expects. It's a slow kiss, and surprisingly subdued. Rick tastes like nectarines and honey and blood and chocolate. Intricate and heady—dizzying. Sam reaches up to hold him in place as they kiss. Someone cat-calls from the floor and Sam ignores them. Rick snaps his fingers and for a moment the air crackles and warps, folding in on itself, packing Sam into a cube and then unfolding him again and that's... disorienting, to say the least. He stumbles as a swanky hotel room materializes around him.

Stares in utter shock at Rick, who doubles over with a wheezing coyote cackle.

"Sorry, beansprout! Should have warned you!" His eyebrows wag and he raises his hand. "I'm a trickster!" Another snap, and Sam flinches, expecting a second static-y jump, but all that happens is that the lights dim and somewhere in the depths of the room a record starts playing. Marvin Gaye, Sam thinks, but he's not entirely sure. (He tries to be well-versed in music, and researches many different things when he has the chance, but there's a lot of information in the world. In any case it's smooth and a little old-fashioned.)

"Care for a dance?"

Sam ignores his question and signs, "I knew you weren't human!" Or, as close as he can get: "Not human!" He really needs to study some more. He doesn't understand the grammar of ASL very well and he knows so few words... He widens his eyes to emphasize his point. Rick laughs once more—and it doesn't seem to be directed at  _ Sam _ so much as at the situation. He prances over and takes Sam's hands in his own and tugs him down for a quick kiss.

"Your ASL is rudimentary at best, but if you keep it up you'll be a pro in no time." He ruffles Sam's bangs. "But, to make it easier... I could just read your mind, if you want."

Sam immediately shakes his head. He doesn't know how to tell Rick "don't," but “No” works just as well. Just to further reinforce the fact that he absolutely does not want a stranger looking around in his brain.

"Okay, okay!" Rick grabs his hands again. Laces their fingers together with a cheeky smile. "Don't get your panties in a twist, big boy." A wink. (He winks far too often, in Sam's opinion, but it's kind of endearing.)

Sighing, Sam pushes at Rick. He nods his head toward the (absolutely massive) bed, raising his eyebrows. Rick gets the idea and his grin turns lascivious as he walks backward, towing Sam along with him. They don't fall onto the bed so much as they instantaneously wind up laying on it—Sam on top of Rick, Rick on top of the scarlet silk sheets. Which cover a memory foam mattress of some kind. All Sam knows is it gives under his hands and knees in the best way. He forgets to pay attention to Rick and instead prods at the silk-covered mattress curiously. Sponge-y and interesting.

Rick chuckles and waves his hand under Sam's nose. "Earth to Sam," he says. "Come in, Sam—"

Sam swats at his hand, wrinkling his nose. Again, "no," because if he tries to say "stop," he will fall flat on his face and squish Rick.

Rick laughs again. "Testy today, aren't we?"

Sam kisses him to make him stop talking. Rick responds with enough enthusiasm to power a small country—he feels like electricity. Especially when his hands tangle in Sam's shaggy hair and his legs wrap around Sam's waist. Sam presses him down into the squishy mattress. It doesn't creak, like he's used to. Just gives around Rick's body. So strange. But Sam likes it. It's nice to plant his elbows against while he bites at Rick's jaw.

Surprisingly, they don't have sex.

Rick says, "No." He nudges Sam away, pushes him down onto his back with ease, and sits on his stomach. He crosses his arms and looks down at Sam, eyes narrowed. "What do you say..." he murmurs. "...you and I watch some movies instead?"

Confused, Sam frowns, eyebrows pulling together and making his forehead wrinkle.

"No, no, it's okay—" Rick leans down a drops a quick kiss on Sam's mouth. "I'm not trying to let you down gently or anything. I'm just... not in the  _ mood _ , you know?"

There's something else he isn't saying. Sam wishes he could ask exactly what, but... Limited communication. So he stares at Rick instead, wide-eyed and pouting. That face always gets people going—Alastair says it's Sam's "kicked dog" face, and it really is. So endearing, so innocently heartbroken. Or so Sam hopes.

"You stop that!" Rick pretends to glare at him. "Even  _ I _ am not completely immune to puppy-dog eyes." He rolls off of Sam, and off of the bed as well, jumping to his feet. He wanders over to the large flat-screen TV facing the bed and picks up the remote, twirling it in his hands. The music that has been playing slowly dies off—though, seemingly not because of the remote, considering Rick hasn't pressed a single button. He shrugs. Tosses the remote aside. The TV flicks on by itself. Sam jumps. Rick laughs.

They end up snuggled together on the bed watching reruns of  _ The Twilight Zone _ , which Rick apparently knows by heart, word for word. He recites each line perfectly, and Sam thinks it's one of the silliest things he's seen, but he enjoys it. Even though he falls asleep halfway through the fifth episode.

Sam wakes up curled against a pillow. For a moment, he's afraid he's been left completely alone, but he hears singing, and looks up to see Rick sitting at the little table nearby, eating a croissant and drinking coffee, humming and singing random bars from a song Sam doesn't know. All he catches are the words, "you are the apple of my eye, forever you'll stay in my heart."

At first, Rick doesn't notice Sam. But when Sam stretches, Rick stops singing and looks at him with a broad grin and squinty eyes. "You're a real cutie, you know?" He's teasing, and Sam knows it, but he's also completely telling the truth—he obviously thinks Sam is adorable. And Sam's not sure how he ought to feel about that. Flattered? Embarrassed? He seems to be experiencing a little bit of both. So he looks away and buries his face in the pillows and blushes.

"Awww," Rick laughs, but it's soft and even a little kind. " _ Someone's _ bashful."

Sam flips him off, which only elicits more laughter.

"C'mon, now." Rick leaves his spot at the table and is at Sam's side much more quickly than should be possible, so Sam assumes he's bent space or time or something. He peeks out from the pillows, to see Rick crouched beside the bed, still grinning. Rick pokes Sam's nose. "You're a good kid, huh?"

The bedding rustles as Sam sits up, tilting his head. His nose wrinkles and his eyebrows knit together. He stares at Rick.

"Like—" Rick sighs. He shoves at Sam, and climbs into bed beside him. He takes a moment to gather himself. "You're, what? Nineteen? Twenty tops. I know you're not old enough to drink—I'm amazed you can get into bars even with that fake ID." He notices Sam's scandalized expression and snorts. "You can't seriously think everyone  _ believes _ you're twenty-one?"

Sam rolls his eyes and crosses his arms.

"Anyway," Rick thinks for a moment. "Right. You're this nineteen, almost twenty year old kid, sleeping around with older men and women, and you apparently move a lot. You can't speak and you can barely use sign language so I'm going to assume you either don't have access to any kind of consistent education—which, considering how often you obviously skip from town to town is probably true—or that you have shitty parents, which might also be true. Or maybe it's just a very recent condition."

Sam nods. Raises his fist in that simple knocking motion.

"Yes? Yes, what?"

Sam widens his eyes and raises his eyebrows. Waves his arm around vaguely.

"All of it? All three?"

Another nod.

"Bad education, bad parenting, and recent. How recent? Sixteen?"

He shakes his head at Rick.

"How old?"

Sam gives him this  _ look _ . This look that says, "seriously?"

"Okay, okay. I get it. Jesus, this would be easier if you'd let me read your mind." But at that, Sam glared. So Rick let out a sigh. "I'm assuming between ten and seventeen?" Rick settles more comfortably on the bed, and Sam nods at him. He clears his throat and squints at Sam. "Fifteen?" No. "Fourteen?" No. "Twelve?"

Vigorous nodding, and Sam grabs his hand.

"You've been unable to talk since you were  _ twelve _ ?"

"Wow."

Sam shrugs.

"Six years, and you don't know more ASL than that?" Rick frowns. "I guess your parents really do suck—parent? I've seen you around, with some tall guy. A demon."

Sam stares.

"What?" Rick shrugs. "I know a demon when I see one, kid." He smirks and leans his head on Sam's shoulder. "He's a demon, for sure. A powerful one, too. But... you don't seem any worse for the wear? Does he... What is he, to you? Not actually your father, surely?"

Sam shakes his head. He pulls away from Rick to grab the little pad of paper and pen on the bedside table. Settles down again and begins to write. It takes up a sheet and a half, but he thinks he's got a good explanation of his relationship with Alastair and how it came about. He hands it to Rick.

As Rick reads, his expression darkens. He looks unhappy. He crumples the paper into a ball and tosses it across the room—it vanishes before it hits the ground. Rick turns to face Sam more fully. "Sam," He takes Sam's hand, and Sam realizes he's never told Rick his name. But he listens to Rick speak.

"Sam, I know he's not physically hurting you, but I think you should find a way to leave."

What? Sam doesn't understand. He signs so.

Rick just shakes his head and sighs.


	5. Innocence is burned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for messy blood drinking (from a jar), resulting in a pretty heavily altered state of mind. More sexual stuff, dubious consent due to Sam beginning to be under the influence of (not demon) blood. Bit of a bad trip not long after.  
> 

Sam spends much of the night pondering Rick's words. He lays in the bed as he records their meeting on the pad of paper, and later rolls onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. He sighs. Makes a tiny sound, just to see if he can, and grins when it comes out as a squeak. He realizes that whispering is just breath and tongue, and he's disappointed that he never noticed before. So simple, and yet... He breathes a few words to himself—vocabulary, and snippets of the alphabet.

While he's murmuring to himself, Alastair appears. He's clean, this time, but agitated. He snatches the notepad from the bedside table, reads it over quickly, and glowers. "You've been with this man before, 500 miles back." He settles his gaze, sunken and dark, on Sam. "Strange coincidence."

Sam makes a strained squeak again, eyebrows drawn together, eyes wide.

It seems to pacify Alastair—the puppy face always works, anyway, but the sound probably helps as well—because he sets the notebook aside and sighs, sitting beside Sam on the bed. He strokes Sam's hair back from his head. "Making progress, are we?"

His hand trails down the side of Sam's face, long fingers framing his cheek, heel of his palm pressing lightly under Sam's chin. Sam nods and tilts his head into Alastair's touch. Alastair sighs something about needing to sacrifice someone—the name of whom Sam doesn't catch—and abruptly vanishes. Sam flinches.

He lays around, bored out of his mind, for hours before he finally just falls asleep in his clothes.

When Alastair materializes soundlessly beside Sam's bed, covered in blood like the other night, he shakes Sam awake with the low snarl of his name. He pulls Sam to his feet, shoving his duffel bag into his arms, and growls, "We're moving locations."

Sam, still half-asleep and disoriented, squints, but nods.

Then Alastair's hand is upon him and the world is melting.

They're in a motel room. Nicer than usual, and clearly neither abandoned nor poorly maintained. Red light filters in through the sheer white curtains and bathes the half-dark room in bleeding shadows. On the nightstand beside the single bed, an alarm clock throws sickly green letters out—2:20.

Alastair steers Sam to the bathroom, rather than the bed. He says, "We don't want to make a mess."

Sam finds that odd. But he lets himself be moved, and when Alastair instructs him to strip down, he doesn't bat an eyelash. That's something he's used to. When Alastair picks him up and sets him in the tub, he makes a face and tilts his head, but doesn't question him. Not when Alastair rolls up his sleeves and picks up a glass jar of strangely luminescent blood and not when Alastair leans close and murmurs, "First we will drink. Next time we will inject. And compare."

It isn't any different from normal blood that Sam can tell but on the edges of his vision it just seems to glisten like stardust

The bathroom light buzzes as Alastair leans forward and holds the jar to Sam's mouth. Sam understands why he's naked in the tub now, because the jar is heavy and solid and its mouth is too wide to allow for neatness.

Blood spills from the sides, and drips down Sam's chin and neck, and splatters the bathtub and his thighs, and it's very, very warm. Hot, even. In a different way from Alastair's hands—Alastair's fingertips burn like brands but the heat of this blood is like a flash of sunlight under Sam's skin.

Sam has trouble focusing on his surroundings.

He feels only a few things—Alastair's hand on the back of his neck, the freezing porcelain of the bathtub against the skin of his bottom and thighs and feet, and the deep warmth of blood everywhere else, overflowing. It's strange. Strangely pleasant. Absorbing his attention.

And then it's gone. Empty jar. Sam frowns and tries to get as much out as he can, going so far as to run his tongue along slick glass. But of course, it's not much use. His face contorts into a wide-eyed pout as he moves his attention to Alastair, who stares, rapt. Sam holds his arms out and tries to look as innocent and sad as possible—he knows how to work his assets.

Alastair sets the jar to the side and leans over a little to pull Sam into his arms, uncaring of the blood that rubs away onto his dress shirt. He lifts Sam against him and carries him out of the bathroom, toward the bed. He pauses for a moment, and seems to come to a decision before he sets Sam down on the sheets. He turns his attention away.

Sam amuses himself for a moment by wiping the blood from his thighs and face and sucking it from his fingers. It smears red across his skin and he thinks that looks nice.

But finally Alastair turns back to him, so he smiles and whispers "Hi."

"A little late for a hello, don't you think, princeling?" Alastair kneels beside Sam on the mattress and leans down. He runs his tongue up the curve of Sam's throat and along his jaw, hissing as leftover traces of blood come in contact with his skin. It clearly burns him, and he clearly doesn't mind one bit. Maybe even enjoys it, judging by the way he lays himself across Sam as he kisses at his face. He snarls, too, and presses Sam into the sheets with hands and mouth until Sam's breath starts to come faster.

Alastair tangles his fingers in Sam's shaggy hair and pulls, tugging Sam's head back and baring his throat. Sam arches beneath him. He gasps and pulls at Alastair's shirtsleeves when Alastair bites his throat. Not hard enough to break skin, or even to hurt, but just hard enough to feel threatening in the most thrilling way.

Sam squirms.

Alastair pins him down and all but ruts against him—an unprecedented loss of control and yet he remains so composed and shadowy and smooth. It's never been like this before, never so... alive. Normally it's much more clinical, but there is Alastair, running his spider fingers down Sam's sides and nipping at his neck and murmuring, "Good boy, good boy."

That makes Sam's face go hot and his heart rate quicken.

Everything escalates.

He can't see entirely straight. Something is affecting his vision and he can't think coherently enough to figure out whether it's the blood he drank or the feel of Alastair's tongue on his skin or something else entirely. But the air is warped and he's hyper-sensitive and he can't hold still. The sheets feel like petals against his bare back. The red light through the curtains paints everything it can reach, while dark blue shadows fill the remaining spaces—Alastair's face is part blood and part smoke. Sam can't actually see Alastair's features. Only the white flash of his smile and the glint of his eyes like polished stones.

The mattress creaks under Sam and his eyelids flutter as Alastair runs his fingers up and down Sam's side. Up, to briefly wrap around his neck before loosening again and moving to push Sam's hair out of his face. Down his stomach and between his legs and across his ribs and along the insides of his thighs.

Alastair examines and caresses Sam's skin for a while, and this is more familiar territory.

He pulls Sam apart piece by piece with long, slender fingers.

Sam draws sharp breaths in through his nose. Lets his eyes fall shut and gathers handfuls of scratchy-smooth cotton in his hands, toes curling, head thrown back and throat stretched taut as he swallows his silence.

Alastair praises him.

Later, in the black depths of the room, Sam finds it very difficult to sleep. The red light through the windows cast strange shadows on the stucco ceiling and the pale wallpaper. Little flickery monsters out to get him, reaching out from behind valleys of paint. He buries his face in his pillow and drags his blankets up to cover himself and presses his hands to his ears to drown out the buzzzzz of the lights, just barely audible through the closed windows.

The room is so quiet. He hears the rush of voices in his head that he hasn't experienced since he was a small child—deafening but muffled, a hundred people shouting and whispering and murmuring all at once, unintelligible and terrifying.

He pulls the blankets tighter around himself.

His stomach feels bloated, and his throat is on fire, and no matter how tightly he shuts his eyes he sees a harsh blue light, rolling and dense like sheets of illuminated fog.

And then it stops.

His skin retains a faint electric sensation—sensitive to anything that touches it, so even the soft cotton sheets feel like they're rough and crudely made. Sam touches his face, and finds it wet. He runs his fingers down his damp cheek and the touch is not painful but it's almost unpleasant, like his nerve endings have been exposed to the open air, and he can feel each ridge of his fingerprints against his jaw. He shivers.

Everything in the room holds a faint blue edge, especially in the dark shadows where the red cannot reach. Sam tumbles from bed, unsteady on his feet, and makes his way to the bathroom on tingling tiptoe—it's like his body is all pins and needles. He locks himself in the bathroom and sinks to the floor. The tiles are freezing on his bare butt and thighs, and everything is glowing a little.

Sam runs his hands along his arms. There's a cut on his elbow that he's been picking at for a few days—except it's gone. He rubs the spot and it's far smoother than it should be. Slowly, unsteadily, he stands, and flicks the light on, squeezing his eyes at the sudden brightness. He blinks away the discomfort and looks down at his elbow. Perfectly smooth.

Other than the few remnants of dried blood flaking from around his mouth and thighs, there's nothing to indicate injuries—not from when he fell and scraped his knee the day before yesterday, not from when he bumped his head on the bedframe at their old place... Nothing.

"Shouldn't you be asleep, young man?"

Sam nearly jumps out of his skin at Alastair's voice. He turns to see the tall demon standing in the doorframe, outlined in red shadows, face not quite corporeal. He hadn't been there before. Sam blinks at him. He shakes his head and holds out his arms, swaying slightly.

Alastair leads Sam into the bedroom by one wrist. He tucks Sam beneath the sheets, stroking his face, murmuring softly, and kisses Sam's forehead. "I understand you're still under the influence of the angel blood, but try to sleep, sweetheart." He uses his fingertips to close Sam's eyes, and they burn hot against the thin skin of Sam's eyelids.

Angel blood...?

Sam has little time to ponder the information before he's sliding into thick unconsciousness.


	6. Streets are uneven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam gets put in timeout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No strong warnings in particular. Some humiliation/punishment though it is neither violent nor sexual.

"Well, well, well..." Rick smiles as if he knows something Sam doesn't. (There's not a doubt in Sam's mind that he does.) "Fancy seeing you here."

Sam tilts his head.

He's not in a bar, this time. Rather, near the market. Sitting on the boardwalk by the water and watching the seagulls go by, with Rick standing just beside him.

Rick sits down on the bench beside Sam and crosses his legs. "You know," he says. "I can smell it on you." He doesn't look at Sam. Just keeps his eyes on the waterfowl, leaning back on his palms.

Sam frowns. He manages a squeaky noise that sounds somewhat questioning.

"The blood."

Sam's jaw tightens and he looks away. How should he take this information? He grasps the side of the bench between his fingers until his knuckles go white and swallows down a sudden nervousness. The sun shines brightly down, and it seems incongruously warm for the subject matter. He breathes a bit and decides to whisper, "What do you mean?" Play it innocent. Probably futile, though, with how tense he is, and with the fact that they both know Rick isn't human. Both know Sam can't lie to him.

A snort. "You know what I mean." Rick finally looks at Sam. His eyes flash gold. "It's in you. It leaves traces. It's powerful stuff, angel blood. Like paranormal meth, or something. I dunno, I'm not really sure how meth works. Anyway." He raises his hand and snaps his fingers, and they're in an empty train. He leans back in his feet and props his feet on the footrest. "I'd advise you to stay away from the stuff. It's about as bad as demon blood as far as bad trips go—probably worse, actually. Angels are always worse." He laughs.

Sam worries his bottom lip between his teeth and folds his hands in his lap.

The train whistles, as it curves along the track, tilting inward. Sam lets gravity press him against the window. He wishes he could say something, but not even a whisper escapes him. He feels frozen in space. Scared. Of what? He doesn't know.

"Hey." Rick reaches out to touch Sam's arm, and Sam flinches. Rick's expression softens. "Sam. It's okay."

He receives an incredulous look from Sam.

"I'm serious! Jeez, you're so jumpy."

A rather more baffled expression.

"Okay, okay." Rick pats Sam's shoulder. "Just hear me out." He pauses to make sure Sam is sufficiently rapt, and stares at him for a moment. "I know your dad's got you—Okay, no, that sounds creepy—I know your demon benefactor has you all Stockholm'd up, but listen to me, kiddo. You do _ not _ want to get into that shit. It's like an enema for your soul, but with hallucinations and addiction and... stuff. Sure, it'll heal you and like... cleanse you or something weird like that, but man, it's not worth it. Trust me."

Sam points at Rick, questioningly. "Trust you?" he signs. Raises his eyebrows

"Yes. Trust  _ me _ ." Rick stabs himself in the chest with his index finger.

Sam rolls his eyes.

"You don't?"

Sam makes this face like he's just been asked the stupidest question on the planet, open mouth and creased forehead and wide eyes, because  _ of course _ he doesn't trust Rick. He barely knows the guy—he slept with him once and knows a probably false name and knows he's not even human. So, no, he doesn't trust him. He shakes his head. Twists his mouth and wrinkles his nose. He looks back out the window, at the broad river the train is passing over.

Rick laughs, mostly through his nose. Not a pleased or amused laugh. Just this rush of air, mildly bitter. "No, of course you don't. Why would you? It was ridiculous of me to think you would, considering how you've been... brought up."

A glare.

"Hey, hey, no harm, no foul." Rick raises his hands. "I only meant... I don't know what I meant. Just be careful, kid. I worry about you."

And then he snaps his fingers and he's gone.

Seriously? Sam droops in his seat. He doesn't even know where this train is going, or where it comes from, or even what country it might be clicking through. He could be in Amsterdam, for all he knows. But he looks up at the little television set near the ceiling of the train car, and it shows a map, and he's actually not far from his current home. He might be a little late to get there, but he's on his way to the right city. So Rick's not a  _ total _ jerk for leaving him.

Eventually, as the sun begins to set, the train sways to a stop. Shudders, and a woman in a uniform walks through the car calling out the station's name, and opens the door onto the platform. Sam hops out, declining her white-gloved hand—he can get off himself. She still seems worried. So he makes as soft an expression as he knows, and signs, "I'm fine, thank you."

She doesn't know sign language, clearly, but she seems appeased, for the most part, and doesn't try to ask him any questions or take him anywhere.

Sam makes his way into the station.

The ceiling is high and vaulted and white, and the floor is slick and shiny, a mosaic of half-glittering tiles. The benches are wooden and people sleep on them, or sit uncomfortably, staring vacantly with buds in their ears or phones in their hands as their only connection to far-away friends and family. Sam walks past them all and out onto the street, through the glass and brass doors. Buildings loom above. He's new to this city, and it's large and intimidating. He looks at the watch on his wrist. The numbers stare at him, black against green. It's past nine o'clock. His curfew was an hour ago. (Out at any time of day past ten am, back by eight or earlier, out to bars from ten to midnight. In bed by one in the morning unless he goes home with someone. On weekends, he stays indoors.)

He sighs and sets off on foot. He's hungry, and he's already late, so he stops to buy a sandwich and eats it as he walks through the steep streets of Seattle. He wonders, briefly, what Alastair will do when he gets home. He decides that can wait. It's unlikely to be anything particularly unpleasant, other than no books or television. He's been grounded before and it's nothing much. He shrugs. Keeps plodding on, keeping close to buildings and lit areas, never down empty streets. He gets turned about once but eventually finds himself at the entrance to the Hyatt they're staying at, and takes the elevator up to floor six. (Their hotel room number is 666, and Sam doesn't know if it's some kind of cosmic irony or if Alastair did it on purpose.)

He uses his keycard to get in, and Alastair is standing in front of the window, looking down on the city, with the curtains pulled wide. He doesn't turn as Sam closes the door behind him. Merely says, gently, "You're very late, dearheart."

Sam sits on one of the beds and looks down at his feet. He attempts to look as pitiful as possible.

"Why so late?" Alastair sits across from him, leaning his elbows against his thighs and catching Sam's eye. "Did you get lost?"

Sam nods.

"You went out farther than you were supposed to, I take it." Long fingers reach out, and press lightly against Sam's jaw. Alastair turns his face side to side and murmurs, "There is a conference in town and I had hoped to have you visit the bar, but I think I'll have to keep you inside for a little while. How far did you go? You smell like a train."

Averting his eyes, Sam shrugs. He knows he seems suspicious, but he doesn't care. Alastair won't hurt him.

Alastair raises his eyebrows. He stands and sighs heavily. "Sit in the armchair."

Sam does as he's told. It's a comfortable armchair, situated at an angle away from the window, by a lamp. He lays his hands on the armrests and leans his head back, watching Alastair. Alastair draws the curtains, briefly peeking out at the now-settled darkness. He stops by Sam for a moment. Tucks a stray strand of hair behind the boy's ear.

"You are to sit there until I bring you breakfast in the morning. Two bathroom breaks, at one and at seven. You may change into your pajamas if you feel the need. No distractions, no entertainment, no touch, and you will not sleep." Alastair steps back about a foot. "You understand?"

Sam nods. He expected something slightly less unpleasant, but hey. It's not so bad. Discomfort and sleep deprivation, he can live with. At least he's allowed to use the bathroom. (Most likely because Alastair would rather not take the time to deal with soiled clothing and furniture, despite how simple and quick it would be for him to clean up. Sam is thankful for the demon's general laziness.)

Alastair places his keycard in the slot by the door, so the lights remain on, and settles on one of the beds with a book in hand.

It takes an hour before Sam starts to fidget. He scratches his nose, and sighs. His jeans have begun to dig into his knees, and he's uncomfortable in general, in the clothes he's been wearing all day. Finally he stands and strips out of his clothing. Is quick to grab his pajamas from on top of the bed, though maybe not so quick in putting them on. He pauses to stretch before he puts his shirt on.

Alastair ignores him.

He frowns and sits down again.

By midnight, he's bored out of his skull and Alastair has left the room, taking his keycard so the lights go out after a while of no movement. When he'd closed the door behind him, a force had settled down on Sam, and now it pins his limbs. He can move a tiny bit—twitches of his toes and fingers and nose—but can't lift his arms or legs, or stand. He's held in place, in the dark. It irritates him, mostly because his butt's falling asleep and he needs to pee.

When one am rolls around, the hold releases and Sam feels suddenly lighter. He definitely doesn't run to the bathroom. Maybe he walks faster than normal. And when he's done, and sits back down in the armchair, the weight settles on him harder than before. He's tired, too, but his eyes won't close for longer than a blink, so even though they itch, Sam has to stare at the black-shadowed wall, or the bed, or the slight illumination from the curtained window. He lets out a slow breath. Leans his head back and looks up at the ceiling. He wishes he could hum, but his voice is still so hard to coax out that he really can't manage more than every few notes, fragile and barely audible. Not to mention, what notes he does manage are severely off-key. He frowns. If Alastair was in the room, he would use his puppy-dog face. Probably pout and squirm to try and get some leniency. But he's not there. Oh well.

By five, Alastair still hasn't returned, and Sam has to pee again but he's got two hours left until he's allowed, and he's hungry and exhausted in the kind of way that makes him want to cry. And that makes him feel silly. But he's been up for over twenty hours and he just wants to lay down and close his eyes and maybe eat an entire pan of something hot.

No such luck, of course.

He sniffles. Ridiculous. And he can't lift his arms to rub his itchy, watering eyes. Despite the simplicity and relative innocuousness of his punishment, Sam definitely never wants to break his curfew ever again. The sun has begun to rise, and it colors the sheer curtains with a slight golden tint, and brightens Sam's corner of the room somewhat. He watches a little square of light slowly sink down the walls with the upward movement of the sun.

At six, Alastair walks into the hotel room. He ignores Sam, and lays on the far bed, and takes out his book.

At seven, Sam can't help himself, and runs to the bathroom the moment the weight lifts. He splashes his face with cold water before walking out into the room as slowly as he can. He shuffles past the beds with hunched shoulders and pathetic expression on his face. He flops into the chair and wishes he could close his eyes, desperately. Instead he glares at Alastair.

No acknowledgement, of course.

It's not until nine that Alastair stands, and stretches, and disappears. He reappears minutes later with a paper bag and says, "Alright, little prince. You can get up now. I brought you some muffins."

Sam hauls himself to his feet and moves toward Alastair—Alastair holds out the bag, but Sam chooses to bury his face in the demon's neck. He wraps his arms around his shoulders and sniffs, pitifully. Alastair makes a gentle cooing sound, lifting Sam up, and carries him to the bed.

"Darling," he murmurs. "You're certainly sleepy aren't you?"

He sets the brown paper bag of muffins aside and lays down beside Sam, who rubs at his eyes. Alastair curls around Sam, almost protectively, and strokes his hair with soft, reassuring noises. He soothes Sam. Lulls him into repetitive calmness, until everything drops away and Sam is floating off into a dreamless unconsciousness, glowing and cool.


	7. On your neck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uneasy day in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for needle/syringe use for the injection of angel blood.

Sam wakes to bright sunlight, alone. Well, not alone in the room. Just alone in the bed. Alastair is sitting in the armchair, with a syringe in one hand. He turns it about in the sun. It glitters. It's full of what definitely looks like blood. Sam's throat constricts at the sight of it. He's distracted by his stomach growling, though. Sits up and rubs his face and looks at the clock—four in the afternoon. He sighs. He's starving.

He eats all three muffins Alastair had brought, and crumples the bag. Tosses it in the trash and sits back on his feet. He wants more to eat, but he doesn't particularly want to ask for more.

Alastair looks at Sam. "Come here." He gestures.

Sam slides off of the bed and pads over—he feels a little sleepy, still, but clear-headed and somewhat energized. He sits in Alastair's lap and tilts his head, questioning. Alastair runs the fingers of his free hand down the pale, soft inside of Sam's arm, and straightens it out until Sam's elbow joint locks. For a moment, he lingers on the delicate green lines of Sam's veins. Then he circles his fingers tightly around Sam's arm, a little painfully, and raises his syringe.

"Sam," he murmurs. "This might pinch a little."

It  _ does _ pinch. Sam wrinkles his nose at the sharp pain of the needle. He frowns, too, as foreign blood enters his system. He feels a little unbalanced—weighted to one side. His whole arm feels strange. But Alastair kisses his the crook of his elbow, setting the syringe to the side, and swipes his thumb over the dark bead of blood that's formed where he pricked Sam. He holds his finger to Sam's mouth, and Sam licks the little bit of redness away.

"Are you still hungry, pet?"

The answer is, of course, yes, so Sam nods.

Alastair reaches into the bag at his feet—Sam hadn't noticed it before—and pulls out another bag. Clear plastic, perforated, and full of small, mottled pink Muscat grapes. He wraps one arm around Sam's waist and with his free hand he plucks a grape from it stem and feeds it to Sam. One at a time, little dusk-colored fruits. Sam devours them. Even gnaws a little at Alastair's fingertips, just for the feeling of something between his teeth.

The flavor of the grapes grows more intricate, the more he eats, and he begins to feel that fuzzy, static sensation in his extremities. He shifts on Alastair's lap. Reality sort of slides along in his vision, so for a moment the world smears like it moves too fast to catch, and then it steadies. The light through the window becomes diffuse and somehow solid in appearance. Gold bars that brush along everything and dye Alastair's edges. Sam sighs—not unhappily. He plays with Alastair's hand for a moment, pushing against the fleshy center of his palm.

After a moment, Sam ducks his head and closes his mouth around Alastair's fingers, hot to the touch and still slightly damp with juice from the grapes.

Alastair pulls his hand away. "Not right now." He stands, lifting Sam in his arms, and moves to the bed. "I'd rather observe." He lays Sam out on the sheets and runs his fingers down his side. Pats his belly and says, "Do whatever else you'd like, though." He pauses a moment. Lets his hand rest against Sam's stomach for a few seconds. "You've gained some weight. That's good."

He smiles, and it seems to slide off his face.

Sam chews on his lip and blinks slowly. Heavily. He reaches down and laces his fingers with Alastair's. Alastair steps away. Sam pouts but he closes his eyes and stretches with a tiny huff. He wilts into the sheets, entranced by the blue glow behind his eyelids and the texture of the blankets. He blinks his eyes open. Glances at Alastair's molten form, darted with gold and blue, and tilts his head. He squirms out of his clothes and tosses them to the side. Burrows into the sheets and blankets of the hotel bed. Grabs one of the extra pillows and curls around it, hugging it to his stomach.

Alastair watches.

He sits in the armchair with a notebook in one hand and a pen in the other, and watches Sam do almost nothing.

Sometimes Sam shifts, mostly he stays still. He likes his little warm cocoon. The threads feel interesting on his bare skin, and the shadows make faces, and the depths smell like laundry detergent and Sam's sweat.

Sam peeks out at Alastair from his blanket burrito. Alastair waves at him, and his fingers blur interestingly. Sam grins. Then Alastair's face goes skeletal and ethereal and Sam shies back into his cocoon, hiding his eyes behind a fold of blanket. He chances a brief glance back out, and sees nothing out of the ordinary other than a deep frown and the traces of blue specters flitting at the edges of his vision. But the longer he looks, the more things distort. There's the grinning skull face again, as Alastair speaks, and the specters solidify into half-formed words and figures.

Sam blinks, and they disappear again.

"Can you hear me, boy?"

Sam gives his head a shake and nods.

"Right." Alastair crosses his legs, ankle over knee, and folds his fingers together after setting aside his notepad. He eyes Sam. Remains silent for a moment longer before saying, "You seem perturbed."

Sam shrugs under his covers.

Alastair moves from the chair to the bed, and pulls the sheet back from Sam's face. "This would be much simpler, I imagine, if you were able to speak more readily." He covers Sam's eyes with his spidery hand and hums to himself. Shifts and presses his fingertips to Sam's forehead. He's silent for a little while.

Then, "Ahh..." He draws away, but remains beside Sam, ignoring Sam's slight trembles. "The blood allows you to see my true face, among other things." He almost laughs. "If you were to step outside, you would see the silhouette of at least one reaper, and the shadows of many ghosts." He draws Sam into his arms. Leans against the headboard, with Sam half in his lap, and pets Sam's hair. "The world is much larger than it seems."

Sam huddles close to Alastair.

He blinks often, until the effects wear off past nightfall.

Alastair allows him to cling close through the night, stroking his hair and back. Soothing and repetitive.

Sam sleeps, and Alastair murmurs about dosage and frequency under his breath like a lullaby.


	8. That rushes skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under the influence, Sam runs into Rick for the first time in years.

Sam doesn't see Rick for a very long time. The next time they meet is the first time Sam leaves indoors under the influence of angel blood.

Sam walks along the sidewalk of the ramshackle, tiny town they're staying in. He's past twenty-one now and hasn't seen Rick, or anyone other than the few strangers he and Alastair interact with, since he was nineteen. He's used to being alone, though. Or accompanied by only Alastair. They've slowly been working up a schedule for angel blood—no injections. Sam drinks it. Once a month, then twice a month, then once a week. Every three days. This is the cycle they're on. He drank it on Wednesday and now it's Saturday night and he's filled up again, and Alastair's allowed him to leave the flickering glow of the motel room.

There's no chance that Alastair isn't monitoring him, somehow, but Sam enjoys the opportunity to wander outside, though he feels unsteady as his surroundings distort somewhat. (He's built some mild tolerance, but still, nothing holds quite still and everything emanates that blue aura and in the edges of his vision he sees ghostly figures.)

Sam walks through a tunnel under a train bridge—it's not a long tunnel, but the lights embedded in the concrete seem to converge into each other and sway from the ceiling. Sam closes his eyes as he walks. He can do that and not worry. He sees a strange imprint of his surroundings. A spectral map, like stars poked into the darkness. And it doesn't shift around like the real world does.

He trails his fingers along the damp concrete of the tunnel, taking in the sensation of ridged, dripping stone. Goosebumps sprout along his bare arms and he shivers.

When he leaves the tunnel, he looks up at the sky. The moon opens a mouth it shouldn't have and bares fangs of clouds and plane lights, and Sam looks away. He doesn't want to be devoured. The ground, though, isn't much better. The wet grass gleams like steel blades and the crumbled gravel under his feet glows with blue embers. The slight breeze pinches at Sam's skin. He hunches his shoulders. He turns a corner and ignores the gray man in a suit standing mere feet away—ignores his creased and wrinkled face and his bony hands and sunken, hollow eyes. He ignores the wispy ghosts that hover just at the sides of his peripheral vision, as well.

As he walks, something in the sky shines. A pillar of light. Sam tilts his head. It's huge. Taller than all the buildings around, most of which don't even reach a third of the way up it. It reminds him of Alastair, but in a different tone. Clearer, harsher, wilder. Blue-white, yet also golden at the edges. A waterfall of light.. He makes his way closer. When he's near enough to hear the pillar hum, he pokes his head around the corner of a building and sees a short man kneeling in front of a homeless woman. The man is unremarkable, but from his back bursts this towering pillar that lets out its singing high note. A roiling, massive structure of light undulating like myriad streams of pressurized water, rustling, feathered and beastly. A mirage of great size—a beacon swarming with rolling eyes and twisted limbs and laughing, three-eyed faces and sharp feathers like razor blades.

"—Rick?" Sam's voice is small and hoarse, but it is steady and living. (Though he still has trouble making much noise, day-to-day, and avoids speaking when possible.)

Rick's eyes widen. "Sam?" He stands. Jogs over, then stops, slowly, a few feet from Sam. His eyes narrow and he takes on a defensive air. A cat, bristling. The structure of light that surrounds and stems from him rustles and stiffens. He mutters, "Sam, what did I tell you?"

"What—" Sam thinks. He remembers the last time he saw Rick, on the train to Seattle, and Rick's warning not to mess with angel blood. He frowns. "What would I do? Fight him? Resist?" All signs. No use straining himself. Sam shakes his head, drawing his eyebrows together, setting his shoulders. "I can't. I don't  _ want _ to."

"Sam—"

"Who are you?" He jabs his hands perhaps too forcefully as he signs.

Rick goes carefully blank-faced. Stands straighter and stares cold. His light-river limbs curl about his towering form as he crosses his arms. Some feathers, long pinions, brush his vessel’s knees. The feathers are gold.

Sam raises his eyebrows. "Angel?"

A curse. Then, "Yeah, okay?" Rick rolls his eyes. "I bet you can tell 'cause you're drinking down angels all the damn time, huh?" He gives a sharp sigh and rubs his face. Breathes in deep through his nose. "Listen, Sam. The world is not a good place right now. Endangered seals and torture and Hell, and all that bullshit. Just... You gotta back off. I know he's a demon. I know he takes care of you. I know you love him, or you think you do. But, Sam... Please."

Sam avoids Rick's eyes. He signs again. "Who  _ are _ you?"

Bitter laughter. "Always tenacious when you wanna know something, huh?" Rick smiles. Frowns, and closes his eyes for half a second. He looks up at the black sky, where his wings and his limbs stretch and weave and morph through each other, so different from his body. He sighs again. "I'm Gabriel, if you really gotta know. Gabriel. Messenger. Archangel. All that bullshit."

"Really...?"

"Yup."

Sam watches him for a moment. "Gabriel... it's complicated. It's not just an addiction I can go to rehab for—it's barely an addiction. It's only an addiction while it's in my mouth. And listen, I don't  _ like _ it. I have nightmares. I see things I'd rather not see, and my senses overload, and I have to cling to the monster that I'm scared of, 'cause he goes so warped in the face when I'm on this crap but he's all I get for comfort. It's weird stuff. But..." Sam curls his fingers. "He's not really... harming me. I mean, this stuff heals me. Even when I hide from stuff under the bed, it heals me."

Rick—Gabriel—just nods. He nods and he looks at the storefronts and he breathes resignation with every inhale and exhale, unnecessary. He closes his eyes and licks his lips, and he walks close, and he takes Sam's face in his hands.

"You've gotten much better at ASL."

Softly, Sam leans down and kisses Gabriel.

"You're taller."

Sam laughs, scratchy. "Maybe you're just shorter." He ignores the three Reapers converging on the homeless woman's neighbor as he speaks. "Maybe I finally hit a growth spurt."

"You're still built like a noodle." Gabriel grasps Sam's bony wrists, one in each hand, and holds up his long arms. Moves his fingertips to Sam's disproportionately broad shoulders and trails them down his skinny frame. "You know, I feel like in another life you're probably built like a brick house, but this... so thin... At least you've got a bit of pudge on you now."

With his eyes on Gabriel's face, Sam smiles. "Not as much pudge as you." He turns his back to the reapers and their prey and pulls Gabriel in a circle with him. He kisses his forehead and whispers, "Take me somewhere the windows don't explode when i walk past them."

Gabriel makes a pained expression. Twisted mouth and knit brow. But he snaps his fingers, with the more solid of his millions of astral hands on Sam's arm.

The streets and buildings melt away until Sam and Gabriel stand in a windowless, doorless room. Red carpeting, white walls, shadowy ceiling. Mattress on the floor with scarlet sheets and zebra print pillows. Gabriel tugs Sam there—it's the only furniture in the room.

"Is this where you live?"

Gabriel shrugs. "Maybe."

"It suits you."

Sam lays back in Gabriel's bed and pulls him down, and Gabriel lets himself be tugged over to lay across Sam. He kisses him once and then falls still, breathing only for a semblance of humanity, with his head on Sam's chest. He runs a hand down Sam's arm. The pillar of light, his true form, phases through the ceiling. Envelops his vessel and Sam up in a cocoon of warm light.

He reaches up to Sam's face—covers his eyes.

Sam falls asleep instantly.


	9. Shining like a god

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It turns out things are more serious than previously realized.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings.

"I had a brother, once."

Gabriel frowns and looks at Sam from his ratty red armchair. (Not just a bed, anymore.)

Sam interrupts his own train of thought to ask, "If you're an angel, why is your apartment so shitty?"

"Seriously?" Gabriel stands and walks over to the window—which hadn't been there during the night—and draws the curtains aside. He looks out on the street. "I don't really spend a ton of time here, kid. I don't need it to be impressive. And I blend in better this way." He picks at the hem of his sleeve. "Look normal, look human. Don't get ganked." He turns his head with a wink.

Frowning, Sam rolls onto his side. He makes an effort to speak, as Alastair always insists that if he can, he should. "What do you mean, 'don't get ganked'?"

Gabriel snorts. "I mean," he says. "That I like to go around punishing assholes who abuse people from their positions of power, and I gotta keep on the down-low if I don't wanna get stabbed by some jackoff who thinks he knows how to kill a Trickster. Not that it would  _ do _ anything to me, but I don't like being stabbed in the chest. You know?"

"Trickster?"

"Trickster. Posed as Loki for a long time. Posing as a Trickster now." Gabriel shrugs. "It's fun. And I can dish out justice. Just-desserts."

Sam sighs and turns all the way over, onto his stomach, spreading his arms out. He watches Gabriel quietly for a moment. Clears his throat, because he feels extra hoarse. He sighs again. He's a tad dizzy, and his surroundings still seem somewhat luminescent, possibly because of Gabriel's presence. It's distracting. He closes his eyes and mutters, "My brother practically raised me. Even though he was just a coupla years older 'n me."

Gabriel—watching a woman push a grocery cart down the street—raises his eyebrow. "Your daddy was useless." He glances at Sam for a moment to say, "If I could have done it without endangering you two, I woulda given him a taste of his own medicine a long time ago. He had responsibilities and he neglected them."

"Hey—"

"Sam." Gabriel shakes his head. "A twelve, thirteen year old boy shouldn't be worrying about how he's gonna feed his little brother 'cause his daddy didn't give them enough money for food."

Sam opens his eyes to peer at Gabriel. He shrugs. "Guess so."

Gabriel closes the curtains with a snap of his fingers and walks over to Sam. His expression is neutral and bored, suddenly, as he plops down onto the mattress and drapes himself over Sam. He kisses Sam's face and neck and shoulders and murmurs, "You're what, twenty-two?"

"Twenty-three."

Gabriel whistles. "Been just about thirteen years since you saw them, huh?"

Sam nods.

"Do you miss them?"

"I miss Dean." Sam squirms and dislodges Gabriel so he can lay on his back again. He pulls the shorter man into his arms. "Sometimes I wonder if they tried to find me, you know?" He coughs. His throat hurts.

Gabriel says nothing. He leans into Sam and stares at his hands. Frowns. He's troubled, it seems.

Sam frowns. "Gabriel?" He gets no response, so he asks, "Gabriel, what are you not saying?" His voice cracks.

Gabriel shrugs, and tilts his head back. Looks up at the ceiling, decorated with plastic stars. "They tried. I mean, Dean tried. John mostly wanted to track Azazel, and you happened to be a part of that goal. But mostly, it was Dean. Fourteen year old kid, searching desperately for his baby brother." He pauses and his mouth twists. "There are rumors, kiddo. Stories going around on the angelic frequencies. Hell, demons are talking about it, too." He breathes out heavily. "Big news going around."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

A discontented groan.

" _ Gabriel _ ."

"Fine, fine." Gabriel squirms for a moment to get comfortable. "Dean got hurt about ten years back, and your daddy—jackass that he is—sold his damn soul. You know what that means, Sammy? Means he's in Hell. Big guy made a deal for Dean to live, and now his time's due, and John Winchester is in Hell."

Sam makes a face. "What about Dean?"

"Dean's fine."

Gabriel deliberates for a moment.

"Dean's just a hunter. He's fine. But... Your dad's gonna crack."

"What do you mean?"

With a grumble, Gabriel says, "Torture. Gonna try to get him to turn and torture himself off the rack. It's a big deal. They're trying to, uh... start the Apocalypse."

Sam freezes for a moment. "Are you—what?" He twists to try and get a good look at Gabriel's face. "The  _ Apocalypse _ ?" His voice cracks, and he coughs a little. Again. "What?"

"It's complicated."

Sam glares. He sits all the way up so he can switch to sign language. "How do you even know this? Are you just joking?"

Gabriel pulls away, leveling a serious stare on Sam. He narrows his eyes before saying, "I have a lot of connections, okay? And I wish I  _ was _ joking, but I've heard enough to know that this is serious stuff. And I fear John Winchester isn't gonna hold up down there." He averts his eyes, posture stiff, and tries half a smile. "You should try asking your sugar daddy about it."

A crinkled nose. "He's not my sugar daddy, jerk."

Gabriel grins. "Says you." He wiggles back into Sam's arms, leaning a head on his shoulder. "Just... ask him about it. And tell him not to, I dunno, gut me."

"If he wanted you dead, you'd already be dead. Trust me." Sam gnaws on his lip. "'Cause he definitely knows I'm with you right now."

"Oh, well you neglected to mention  _ that _ ." Gabriel makes a face, with his eyebrows all scrunched up. "Does he have a tracking device on you, or something?"

Sam shakes his head. "Considering he let me leave the house drugged, I think he probably has some minions or something keeping track of me. I dunno." He shrugs. "Telepathy, maybe."

Gabriel nods.


	10. Surface Area

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little chat with Alastair, and some rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings.  
> The next chapter will be introducing some characters you might know, because telling this story from only Sam's perspective limits me far too much, which is why some of these chapters have been so short.

Alastair says nothing when Sam shows up in the morning. He hands him a bagel and the little notebook with its nubbin pencil, and wanders to the window. Stands in the beam of dusty sunlight cascading diagonally into the room, and stares out over the glass-filled alley. He half-observes Sam scribbling things down—they've stopped tracking people Sam sleeps with and have moved to recording the things he sees and the sensations he experiences under the influence of the angel blood.

Sam doesn't mind. Writing about the auras and shaded men and harsh lights and warped realities he sees helps him straighten his thoughts, and allows Alastair to explain things to him.

The motel they are staying in is seedy, dark. They've been here for almost a month, and Alastair has shown no signs of moving. Sam kind of wishes they could at least go somewhere nicer, because there's a ghost that creeps out from under the bathroom floor when Sam is high, and a lot of pulses of energy from dead rats in the walls, and the carpet has fleas. He thinks that if someone brought in a black light, they'd be horrified by whatever showed up. He certainly doesn't want to know what kind of stains there might be.

The broken mattress squeaks under his butt as he shifts in a futile attempt to sit more comfortably. He makes sure he writes down everything he can remember. When he hands the notepad back to Alastair, he says, "He's an Archangel."

Alastair nods. "I am well aware, prince." He skims Sam's unsteady notes and leans against the windowsill. (The wood is rotten, and creaks unpleasantly.) "Perhaps he can be of use."

Sam just nods. He doesn't know what Alastair means, but it's probably best to agree.

They remain silent, with only the sound of the air conditioning buzzing loudly. Such squalor has Sam on edge, and he fidgets. He rubs his face, tired, and leans forward with his knees supporting his elbows, bony. Soft sigh, and he whispers, "Why?"

"'Why' what?"

Sam gestures to himself, fingers fluttering. "Blood."

A shrug from Alastair, and the tall, spidery man slinks away from the window and sinks down into the mattress beside Sam. He leans back on his hands and stares up at the ceiling for a few minutes. Stretches his legs out long. He turns an eye on Sam to reply, "Experimentation. Prevention of possession." He lets out this long, slow smile that doesn't quite fit his face right. "Azazel wants to free the Devil to bring about the Apocalypse. I don't want that, just yet."

"What does that have to do with me?" Sam doesn't have to say it. His expression conveys all.

Alastair laughs low in his chest.

"You are the true vessel of Lucifer, Sam Winchester."

He allows Sam no time to roll his eyes. Sam knows this already—he's been drilled with it since he was ten, twelve, fourteen, so on and so forth. (Though he was told the others were also vessels... but "true" vessel seems more concrete, somehow. Like Jake was false. Ava was false. Maybe they were. Just... distractions. Competition.)

Alastair inspects his fingernails. "I want to make you as unsuitable a vessel as possible. I want to desecrate the space that he would have, and using angel blood is a way I  _ may _ be able to do so. To keep him out, I will fortify your cells with angels." He stands again. Folds his hands behind his back and returns to the window. Outside, in the heat, it's begun to rain thick and dark. "I have no doubt in my mind that the release of Lucifer is inevitable, and that he will attempt to sway you. But you will not house him, and he will fail. Of that, I am also certain." He doesn't look at Sam, but Sam feels his attention firmly about his shoulders nonetheless—inside of his head. Alastair closes his eyes a moment. Murmurs, "I do not desire my domain to be flooded with bodies."

Sam chews on the inside of his cheek.

Outside, in the rain, a bird screeches.

Sam, though the most garish effects of the blood have worn away, can still see auras and the slight electric tinge to his surroundings. Alastair's face is still barely overlaid by a skeleton mask of light. That's how it is, lately. Blood, hallucinations, three days of vagueness 'til it dissipates and then blood again and the cycle repeats. Some kind of growing ability or something. It warps his view of the world in such a way that he has trouble making eye contact with anyone when he leaves the motel. Not that he often leaves. Only when necessary, or when restless.

Now, the air conditioning is laced with sparks and the window glows subtly, and the fleas in the carpet are bright white pinpricks of light. Sam's own skin glows like it's lit from within.

He twists his mouth.

Through the window, everything alive glitters with a combination of blue-white light and the wet weather. The leaves are vibrant, and spots of sun peek through the swathes of rain in thick bars, illuminating the ground. It's very pretty.

Alastair glances at him over his shoulder. "Go ahead."

Sam smiles. Signs a quick "Thank you," and grabs his jacket before leaving the motel room to go stand in the heavy dampness of the parking lot. He turns his face to the sky—mottled with deep blue and silvery clouds—and closes his eyes. The feel of warm raindrops on his skin is pleasant. Soothing.

He sways where he stands, content.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, okay, here's the thing.  
> Please read this, especially if you are excited to see an update.  
> Here's the thing.  
> It's not gonna get finished. I had started working on it again, but I didn't wanna post any until I had more. I wrote a few chapters, but now I've realized I'm probably not gonna write anymore of this story. Heck, might not finish anymore Supernatural fics at all.  
> So what I'm gonna do is I'm gonna post all of what I have in the draft, and then I'm gonna post the plot outline I have so that you all can at least sorta get an idea of what was going to happen in the story.
> 
> I know that's not as good as a finished story, but it is what it is.  
> To anyone reading this, I hope your day is going okay, and if it isn't I hope it gets better.

“Who are you—” Dean narrows his eyes. “ _What_ are you?”

Shadows of wings, black charcoal. Heavy blue eyes, squinting in the shadows. The voice that speaks comes low and grinding. Dean’s ears ring.

“I am an angel of the Lord.”

"Bullshit."

At that, the man seems puzzled, tilting his head like a dog trying to hear something in the distance. He stands silent for a very long time, until the drawn out quiet in the barn makes Dean wonder if perhaps he's merely gone deaf. But no, he hears a cow in some nearby pasture.

An unnatural, forced cough. Shuffling of feet.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Listen, bud... Name's Dean, I don't believe in angels or God or any of that bull crap. Who the hell are you and why are you in a barn?" He gestures back toward the field the barn opens onto. Speaking of bull crap.

He is met with an intent stare. Finally, "My name is Castiel."

"Okay, Cas—" Dean holds his arms out. "Why are you here?"

Castiel narrows his eyes. He approaches Dean—slowly, stiff, almost as though he is unaccustomed to walking. His trench coat swishes with each step. He stops in front of Dean, just barely looking up at him, reading his face. And then, "You need my help. The seals are in danger."

Dean blinks.

"I'm sorry, what?" Dean's face wrinkles with his confusion. "I'm not an animal rights activist. Go to the zoo or something." He turns around and makes to leave, but before he can take a step Castiel is in front of him again.

How does he move so quickly?

With an expression just short of a glare, Castiel rumbles, "Dean Winchester, your father's soul is in Hell, and the seals are on the verge of being broken." He grabs the front of Dean's shirt in one rough hand. "Even a stubborn fool such as yourself must realize that the world is out of sorts. Omens, an increase in demonic activity, cults rising every day across the planet. I am not looking for a zoo." He lets Dean go and makes his dramatic exit, coat billowing as he walks out into the dry farmland.

It's almost as if lighting springs from his shoulders.

Dean grimaces. "Look—Fine!" He runs after Castiel. Grabs his shoulder, and Cas stops immediately.

"What do you know about the seals? All Bobby's told me is that they have something to do with Satan. Or something."

Castiel raises his eyebrows. "Or something."

He walks off again, this time more calmly. Dean keeps pace with ease—Castiel's legs are not very long and he moves with no hurry at all despite apparently dire circumstances. His hair is messy and his eyes droop. Dean has never seen anyone quite like him, and he's not sure if it's his appearance that strikes him or something else. Either way, he's weird. And he's wearing crappy loafers in the middle of farmland in...whatever state this is. Ohio? Idaho? Dean always mixes the two up.

"You're staring."

Dean huffs.

"You've never met an angel?"

Dean shrugs. "Met a girl with wing tattoos once." He raised his eyebrows. "Maybe she wasn't an angel but she was _divine_ all right, if you know what I mean."

"I don't."

They lapse into a somewhat sour silence as they walk down the dirt road toward Dean's car. It's a two-door Chevrolet Impala from 1965, and he had found it half-rusted out in Bobby's heap of abandoned cars. Painted it slick black, buffed out the dents and polished the chrome. "She's tough on hills but she sure beats the van I grew up in." Dean opens the door and nods toward the other side for Castiel to get in. "Be careful. She's my pride and joy."

"She is... beautiful, I suppose."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "You suppose?" He shakes his head as he starts the engine. "Heretic."

Silence. Castiel seems unsure what to do. He sits like a mannequin. Dean rolls his eyes and pulls out onto the dusty, dusty road with little regard for what may or may not be behind him—it's empty for miles. "Buckle up, Ziggy Stardust. Don't want you breaking through the windshield if I hit a cow."

"I would be more concerned about the windshield than myself, if that were to happen." But he fastens his seatbelt anyway, with great deliberation.

Dean doesn't dignify him with a response.

Hundreds, possibly even thousands of miles away, he has no idea that his little brother sits in a red-walled room reading passages from a thick book on demons. Sam's maybe a quarter of the way through it and his eyes burn. He tosses it aside and leans back against the soft pillows of Gabriel's bed.

"So... what makes holy water holy?" Sam looks over at Gabriel, who appears to be doing yoga of some kind. Or maybe tai chi.

Gabriel shrugs from one pose to another, and as he does so he looks back at Sam. "What makes anything holy? Blessed by a priest, or a monk, or whatever... Touched by Christ or the Buddha, I dunno. Ask a pastor." He reaches down to touch his toes and does so with what seems like no effort, knees unbent, back straight, just folding at the waist. Surprisingly physically fit.

Sam sighs. "You're an Archangel. You're supposed to know this stuff."

"Says who?" Gabriel straightens up and gives Sam his stern professor look. All that's missing is a blazer and a yard-stick. "Just 'cause I know if water is holy doesn't mean I know _why_. It varies religion to religion, anyway." He hops over to the bed. "A river might be holy for one person and normal for another, just like how a flask of Catholic holy water might be useless to a Shinto priest." He sprawls across the zebra-striped covers and closes his eyes, oddly cat-like.

After a brief moment of thought, Sam nods. "You're right." He rubs his nose. "But then, I don't understand how holy water can hurt demons if some people don't even think of it as holy."

"It's all in the intent." Gabriel rolls up the bed towards Sam. "If the person using it _believes_ it's holy, and it's been treated by whatever relevant person, like a priest or a monk, then it should work on whatever monster it's supposed to work on."

"So... true believers?"

Gabriel smirks. "Nope. As long as they think it's holy water, it's holy water, whether they believe in its powers or not. Just have a priest do his thing, give it to some guy and say it's holy water and... voila. Acid for demons."

"That doesn't make any sense!" Sam lets his head bump back against the headboard with a huff.

"Eh." Gabriel folds his arms behind his head, staring up at the ceiling with those gold coin eyes. He seems almost... pensive. Then returns to his customary playful grin. "Religion doesn't have to make sense in the same logical ways as science or math or... what have you. It only needs to make sense to your emotions."

Sam frowns.

"You know what doesn't make sense? Bumblebees. Those big, fat ones."

A good point.

They spend twenty minutes in relative silence, only broken by the occasional rustle when Sam signs something and Gabriel nods or shakes his head or signs back. ("Why zebra stripes?" "Why not?") Sam begins to nod off, comfortable in the warmth of Gabriel's apartment, but then Gabriel sits up and snaps his fingers.

"Almost forgot!" He hops off the bed and grabs something from the nearby table. "I got this for you."

It's a cellphone. Solid, sort of rounded, and when Sam flips it open the address book is pulled up showing only one contact—"Dr. Sexy."

Sam gives Gabriel his most peeved look.

"What, you don't want an appointment with the sexiest medical doctor west of the Cascades?" Gabriel waggles his eyebrows. But then he shakes his head, expression softening, and says, "I wanna be able to keep track of you, kid. Okay? I worry sometimes."

"Worry?"

Gabriel rolls his eyes. "Yes, _worry_."

Sam closes the phone, and he pockets it. He moves his fingertips from his lips, through the air in an arch. Almost like blowing a kiss, but not quite.

He gets back a gentle "Shush."

The moment is broken when Gabriel's dog starts whining at his bedroom door.


	12. Chapter 12

It's warm in California, even in April. Warmer than Seattle or New York, at least. Sam sits on a park bench at noon, watching birds fly through the partly cloudy sky. He can see silver-blue streaks behind them. Souls, perhaps.

Nearby, Alastair feeds a pigeon. It perches on his arm and he gives it sunflower seeds. Sam wonders how he convinced it to trust him, considering most animals run away at the slightest sign of a demon. Especially one of Alastair's rank. But somehow, that particular bird doesn't mind his face or his aura and happily snatches the seeds he holds out between spidery fingers.

Sam can see the web-like patterns of interaction through the world, veins of conversation between souls and thoughts and waves of sound. He closes his eyes. The fading imprint of his surroundings exists in a film of blue light, like something out of a science-fiction movie. Like pressing spun sugar around a sphere. Pseudo three-dimensional. Still fairly clear, though it fades as the angel blood works through his system. But it will never go away entirely unless he goes at least a few weeks without drinking.

The bench creaks as Alastair sits beside him. He's heavier than he looks, at least to human eyes. With shut eyes, Sam can make out the outline of his true self. Not as tall as Gabriel (whose light reaches higher than Sam can see) but still almost unfathomable. All etched into Sam's eyelids. When Sam opens his eyes and glances over, he can see the skull-like mirror of Alastair's true face controlling his expressions. Every motion he makes echoes the pulses of his pillar-like true form rising into the air from his body, white smoke with screaming limbs. Like a strange marionette, almost.

"How does it feel being like that?" Sam gestures vaguely behind Alastair.

Alastair tilts his head, too smoothly. "Like what?"

Sam knows very well that Alastair is playing with him. But he goes along with it, carefully articulating in his creaky, disused voice—"Being so big, controlling a little human." He coughs.

"Ah." Alastair leans back into the bench. "It's something like being in two places at once." He looks up at the sky. "I fit naturally into this vessel. I move around in it, like a suit of flesh and nerves. Yet at the same time I retain the acuity of all my true senses. My body trails along something like a shadow. Neither is a marionette, as you think, but overall I am indeed something of a puppet master." He curls his fingers into a fist as he watches the clouds... tilts his gaze toward Sam, and blinks so that his eyes go milky white. He stares.

Sam stares back.

He can hear wind chimes, though there is no breeze.

A low thrum... Vibrations through his bones. And then it stops. Sam looks around, and other people in the park move uncertainly. The birds have gone, and Sam sees no squirrels, but he hears someone's small dog yapping wildly.

Beside him, Alastair stands. "Time to go."

Just as the pathway begins to buckle, his long fingers close around Sam's arm and the park twists away into concrete walls.

"Where are we? What just happened?" Sam's fingers move quickly, but he knows Alastair can parse his motions.

Alastair moves silently, covering the iron cross in the middle of the room with a black sheet that had been laying on the floor. Sam can still see traces of blood and rust on the chains trailing from underneath. The concrete floor is stained, and a metal cart sits against one of the walls. Overhead a large fan rotates, letting light through in blue-white beams. Alastair stands in the middle of the cylindrical room and watches one fan blade make its slow path around.

A long time passes, as he stares upward.

His body flickers, not like when he conjures things but... as if his form is slipping.

Twelve rotations. Sam counts them.

Sweeping slow, silent but for a slight creak and click every time the fan completes its circle.

"You no longer stand on Earth." Horns curl from Alastair's skull-like head, and his long clawed nails are stained almost black with blood.

Sam looks down at the floor, and backs up until his shoulder blades touch the wall.

"You stand in a pocket dimension, consisting only of this room, illuminated by the Grace of a dead angel leaking out from where it was trapped."

That makes Sam's breath catch, and he avoids looking upward. The blue light is unmistakable, it's true. The same edge of color Sam sees when he closes his eyes. And he closes his eyes. Around him, nothing but the room, and that iron cross, and Alastair standing with his double-bent legs and his folded wings. Hands hanging down to his knees.

After a few moments, Sam spares a glance at him—his leathery once-white skin, stained to a purplish parchment color all over but maroon and red along his hands, his feet, his teeth, his curved horns... White eyes in wine-deep sunken eye sockets.

His wings trail translucently along the concrete floor, relaxed and thin, marked with veins.

Sam breathes deeply and his lungs fill with the smell of pennies and decay.

"Are you afraid of me?"

Sam nods. Of course he is afraid.

"You want to know why I look this way." Alastair's wet red teeth glint in the light of death from above.

Another nod.

"It's not what you see when you drink the blood."

Nod.

Alastair walks across the room, to the cart, clicking and creaking as his joints move. He picks up a scalpel. Sam can see the bumps of his spine leading down to a thin, whippy tail just as bloodstained as his fingers.

Sam closes his eyes again and listens.

"The vessel is not true but neither is it precisely false." Although Alastair resides in a different form from his vessel, his voice comes out remarkably similar... the tone sweet and slow, rolling, the kind of sound that makes you feel like something is crawling up the back of your neck. "We are not on Earth, and so you see a version of me."

Sam wishes he could stop breathing. It feels as though rust coats the insides of his lungs. He cannot bring himself to even whisper, as if his jaw is locked and his throat has closed. He moves his hands to ask, "Is this Hell?"

"No."

And suddenly he smells grass and rain and dirt, and he opens his eyes, and Alastair stands as a human once more, staring out across the park.

The ground shifts just barely under Sam's feet and when he looks down the path has cracked in two places, and water pools into the open spaces. Rain hisses on every hard surface. A dog barks. A picnic blanket lies abandoned in the wet grass. Sam looks around. No one.

"Earthquake."

Sam looks at Alastair in disbelief.

"It was less than a 7, don't worry."

Even more disbelief, wringing his hands.

Alastair sighs, turning his eyes Heavenward.

He reaches out to Sam, fingers curling around fingers so he can lead him out of park, distant sound of sirens accompanying soft footsteps that crackle over gravel and mud. In the sky, the sun hangs warm orange through a haze of clouds and smog, and Sam can smell smoke. He lets Alastair choose their path and focuses on ground beneath his feet, imagining the huge plates of rock that must grind against each other beneath the continent.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where it ends. All I have. The following chapter will contain a plot outline.

"Her name is Anna?"

"Her name is Anna."

"And she's an angel."

"Yes." Castiel sits rigid at the table, flickering orange light dropping in lines across his skin from the half-open blinds. His hair sticks up, but he seems not to mind. "Anna is an angel who threw herself to earth. I do not know if she knows. I can feel her presence."

Dean clears his throat, propping his elbows on the tabletop and eyeing Castiel with some level of distrust. His brow furrows, as he frowns. "You're telling me that there's some angel who doesn't know she's an angel—first of all, I'm still not entirely sure I believe all this angel crap—" He ignores Castiel's unamused scowl, waving his hand as he continues. "You just show up, saying all this stuff and I'm supposed to believe it? All of it? No questions asked?"

"Many questions are being asked, but yes."

That gets a laugh out of Dean. Bitterly amused, scornful. He leans back in his chair and looks up at the ceiling. "You're a real character, you know that?"

Castiel's brows draw together and he says nothing.

"Jeez." Dean pushes himself out of the chair and walks the few feet it takes to get to the bed. He all but falls onto the mattress, and grabs the remote so he can channel surf for the next four hours. The connection isn't fantastic, but it's enough. He leans back against stained pillows. Static. Golfing. News. Sitcom. More news. Sitcom from the 80's. Cooking show... Dean lingers before changing the channel. Yet again, news. Big red headline and BREAKING across the screen. He stops.

_A scale 7.0 earthquake hit a large area in northern California today, and while damage was minimal some older and more brittle buildings and roads sustained damage. Liquefaction was seen in multiple areas. One restaurant caught fire near what is estimated to be the epicenter, but it is uncertain whether this was due to the earthquake itself or faulty wiring. Few injuries have been reported but the police are still filtering calls from concerned citizens and it seems the earthquake affected an area of almost 200 miles._

"Dude, are you hearing this?"

_—experts say the likelihood of a second earthquake is high, and urge anyone living within 300 miles of Crescent City, California to be prepared for the potential event. Aftershocks have been reported into the evening. This is Channel 5 News and I'm Tara MacMillan with breaking news. More information at 8._

Dean looks over at Castiel, raising his eyebrows. "Crazy shit, right there."

"...Yes." Castiel stands. He flicks his wrist and the TV mutes itself as he approaches. "Dean. Tomorrow morning we will be visiting Anna. Do you understand?"

Rolling his eyes, Dean sits up and mutters, "Crystal clear, big guy."

"She's in Ohio."

"You're fucking with me."

Castiel stares at Dean.

"Listen, you... weirdo—" Dean raises a hand and points at Castiel, expression some strange cross between dismay and incredulity. "We... are in _Utah_."

Castiel raises his eyebrows, almost mimicking Dean's expression. "I... am aware of this fact."

With a clenched fist pressed to his forehead, Dean takes a deep breath. Sighs. "Are you also aware of the fact that Ohio is across the entire frickin' country?!" His voice increases in volume so that the last word is almost a shout. He shoves himself off of the mattress and comes close to Castiel, holding his finger out, ready to jab. But he holds back and calms himself. Closes his eyes, opens his hands. Finally looks at Castiel with a hard frown. "I don't know where you came from, I don't know what you want with me, but I can't drive from Utah to Ohio in a single morning and unless you can teleport—"

Castiel holds his hand up, palm out. This shuts Dean up, though he doesn't know why. Thumb and two fingers curl, saint-like, and Castiel reaches out to touch Dean's forehead with his middle and index fingers. His hands are hot and a shock runs through Dean's veins. Everything goes white for a moment, and he stumbles when his vision comes back.

An owl hoots.

Dean looks around.

A neighborhood... A street lined with quaint brick houses. Bright street lights, trees lining the sidewalk.

"Where—" Dean's finger is out again, that accusatory point. His chest rises and falls noticeably as he controls his breathing. In, out... in, out... in, out... Both hands up in surrender, and he turns away from Castiel. Doesn't say anything.

"We're down the street from the hotel."

Dean seems to deflate, and he looks up at the black sky. "I want to strangle you."

Castiel stands still. "It wouldn't do any good."

"Yeah, well—" Dean turns to say something sharp, but Castiel has disappeared, and Dean is alone. "Son of a—" He grumbles to himself and, under the yellow light of the streetlamps, he begins to walk.

..................................................

After an unpleasant experience in the bathroom the next morning, Dean downs a greasy breakfast in the hotel lobby and smuggles four multigrain muffins back to his room. He finds Castiel sitting stiff as always, perched on the edge of the bed, watching the news with an expression of grave concern. A ridge between his eyebrows. He spares Dean only a cursory glance.

"What's on?" Dean takes a bite from one of his muffins, wrinkles his nose in distaste, and tosses the rest into the trash can.

Castiel gives the trash a concerned look, and grates out "The End Times."

Dean coughs on muffin crumbs. "What?" He pounds his chest, clearing his throat.

"Earthquakes," Castiel gestures toward the television. "Epidemics, forest fires, territorial disputes..." A glance at the garbage can. "Food shortages..."

"Bird flu is not an _epidemic_ , Cas."

Castiel narrows his eyes at the TV but does not look at Dean.

Eventually, he turns it off without touching it and Dean swears he can hear something sizzle. Good thing he uses fake names to check into hotels, because he can't even begin to think about the potential damage Castiel might wrack up. He begins to pack his bags, every few seconds glancing over at Castiel who still sits motionless in the same spot. Such a strange man... angel. Whatever. Dean shakes his head and makes sure he hasn't forgotten anything. Hoists his duffle up onto his shoulder.

"You ready?"

Castiel looks at Dean as if he can't believe he would even ask such a thing.

Point taken.

Dean rolls his eyes and takes his stuff out to the car, and when he gets into the driver's seat Castiel reaches through the open door and touches his shoulder. Suddenly, though Dean is still sitting in his car, the street has changed. The plants, the air, the sky. Sun high, and Dean's head feels like it's going to explode. But his ears pop, painfully, three times, and he can shake the discomfort from his skull.

"My apologies. I didn't take into account the sudden change in elevation and air pressure."

"Yeah, obviously." Dean works his jaw and slams the car door shut. In the time it takes him to blink, Cas moves from the road to the passenger seat. Startles Dean, but he tries not to show it. "Where are we headed?"

Cas nods. "A few blocks away from here."

Dean starts up the engine. No use in dawdling. He lets Cas direct him, and each turn leaves him a little more comfortable as he gets used to the neighborhood's narrow streets. A lady walking her dog waves at them, and Dean shoots her his most charming smile while Castiel looks constipated in the passenger seat. Staring intently out at each house, no doubt committing the numbers to memory or something... Maybe x-ray vision.

"There." A quaint white house, simple lawn. A robin hops around in the grass, and when Dean cuts the engine the bird flies off in a flurry of feathers and wingbeats.

A young woman sits on the porch, red hair hanging in front of her face as she looks down at a book in her lap. What kind of book? Hard to tell, maybe a sketchbook. 

Not until Dean gets out of the car, shutting the car door behind him loud enough to startle even himself, does she look up. Parting her hair, eyes dark. She watches Dean and Castiel walk up the path, eyebrows barely drawn together. She closes her book—a sketchbook indeed—and sets it aside with the worn pencil and red and blue pastels on the small round table beside her.

"Anna?"

She nods, hesitant to speak. But she holds out her hand and says, "Are you Castiel?"

"You know my name." Castiel sits beside her on the porch swing.

Another nod, and for a few seconds none of them speaks. Not even Dean. Much as he wants to, he stands waiting, elbow against the railing in an attempt to be casual and non-threatening. Maybe it works, maybe he just looks like a dork. Either way, Anna seems calm and composed. A few strands of her hair lift in the breeze, scarlet. She fidgets, and eventually grabs the notebook and hands it to Castiel without a word. She holds her wrist as he opens the cover.

Pastel, pencil, even paint and markers. Drawings of stained glass windows, pages covered in eyes, blue-glowing doorways and stern men and women in black suits. Wings drawn red, almost like blood. Others black and charred, charcoal and ink. Several swathes of deep red, a child, a man with shaggy hair and long legs, pillars of light, skull-faced, black-eyed monsters... many-limbed, many-winged beasts with halos. A man with glasses and tired eyes, scribbled over beside a sketch of a young woman.

Castiel continues to flip through the pages and says, "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were a prophet."

"No," Anna smooths down the fabric of her shirt. "My visions are of the past."

There is a long pause.

Eventually, she murmurs, "I am an angel."

"So you _are_ aware."

She nods. Pulls her legs up, to rest her chin on her knees and hug her shins. "I had begun to suspect. I have these dreams, day and night. Memories, some of them. My parents didn't believe me—I've been through plenty of therapy but these dreams are not just dreams. I know that, even if they don't." She cracks a crooked grin. "To be fair, therapy isn't so bad when you have the right therapist. Even when you're an angel."

Castiel hands her notebook back. "I'm sure it's good for the emotions."

"Yeah." Anna sets the book aside, on the table once more. She sets her green-brown eyes on Dean, then, sizing him up. "You're a hunter. I can tell."

"Who—me?" Dean raises his hands. "Yeah... I guess." He looks away, across the lawn. Just checking on his car. "I hunt."

She snorts, and stands. Sparing just a glance for Dean—up and down, quick—she heads for the steps, down the pathway. Dean follows after her, trying to hide his slight concern. For the car. Behind him, Castiel flutters out of existence. Ahead of them both, he appears again. Beside the Impala, hair askew and coat not quite laying flat.

"Jesus, Cas, maybe stop doing that?" Dean opens the door for Anna, who doesn't even slow before sliding into the passenger seat. He closes the door on her and walks around the car. "You're gonna give me a goddamn heart attack one of these days."

With no response, Castiel teleports into the backseat of the Impala. He looks only a little self-satisfied as Dean slams into the driver's seat and starts the engine.

Again, with the teleportation.

The whole car seems to groan as it settles into the parking spot outside of the hotel. Dean expects the unpleasantness that accompanies the change in air pressure, but beside him Anna lets out a grunt and shakes her head like a wet dog. She presses her fingers against her ears for a few seconds, but eventually her face clears.

"Ow?"

"Get used to it." Dean gets out of the car and stretches his arms over his head in the half-empty parking lot.

 

grace


	14. Plot Outline and Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like I said in the notes on ch. 11, I will not be returning to this story. However, I will post the plot and notes, because a great deal of story was planned.  
> Honestly, it would have been quite a feat to take on.
> 
> Thank you for reading.

Plot:

**  
Summary** :

dean is 4 years older than sam

_Sam’s timeline_ :

1982: Born. Normal Supernatural goings on until 1994.

1992: Age 10: Sam found in a stained motel room and stolen by Azazel. Taken back to be raised with the other Special Children as a potential vessel for Lucifer.

1994: Age 12: No longer able to speak as he has been tortured so that further pain = further silence. Noise is punishable.

1999: Age 17: For unknown reasons, Sam is handed off to Alastair, no longer to be trained as Lucifer’s vessel or Azazel’s boy king.

2000: Age 18: Not in fic. Just whatever. Figuring out how Sam ticks etc.

2001: Age 19: Meets Gabriel (posing as Rick). Exploits, fake id, recording everything, just beginning to learn sign language. Unused to the traveling life.

2002: Age 20: Second meeting with Rick not long before his 20th bday. They watch movies. Not human. First experience with angel blood. 3rd meeting with Rick sometime mid-to-late summer or early fall, in Seattle. Train. Blatantly not human Rick. Chair punishment for lateness. Next day syringe. Sam is gaining weight.

2005: Age 23: Meets Rick for the first time in years and sees his true form, is informed of his true identity as Gabriel the angel. On a cycle of angel blood that has been increased to once every three days. Sam is able to speak somewhat but it hurts his throat. He generally whispers, and still signs. Is much better at ASL. Taller, more weight but still a beanpole with little muscle.

The angel blood’s use is to purify Sam’s blood and soul, to “fortify his soul with angels” so that he is an unsuitable vessel for someone like Lucifer. Residing in Sam would cause Lucifer pain, being in his long-lost harsh hot light would burn him. Probably.

 

**Not Sam** :

1995: Dean (17) was injured in a hunt. Dying. John Winchester made a deal with a crossroads demon to prevent Dean from dying.

2005: John Winchester’s soul has been taken to Hell. Dean is a hunter.

 

**Upcoming Plot Points** :

In 2006 John Winchester will torture another to get himself off the rack. The first Seal will be broken by a righteous man shedding blood. There are many seals being broken. Only 66 out of 600 are necessary. Dean cannot stop them. Not even with the help of Anna and Castiel, who join him after the first seal. (Castiel first, then they find Anna the fallen and reborn angel and she helps too.)

Anna finds her grace which is why castiel seeks her out with dean, he can feel her presence. Due to Dean not being resurrected Anna was not committed to the hospital but she did talk about angels and shit so has been in therapy and stuff, as she is growing more aware of her angelic nature and Castiel is seeking her out because he wants her help.

ok cas in early 2006. they find anna AFTER the first seal breaks in april. they stop one or two seals but then like two more get broken lol. it's around this point that things get a LITTLE chaotic but most places are still fine. Sam gets a phone from Gabriel. They are in California, and have been for a while but they go from north to south.

In late 2006, Sam meets Jessica, a nursing student in California. He wishes he could stay with her but at least he can text and call her. She and Gabriel are his most important people outside of Alastair who still keeps him. Stanford is still running at this point and it's fall.

Lilith is released that year so she can break the rest of the seals. Uriel has Castiel and Anna find a way to kill her.

She is killed in 2007, breaking the final seal. By who? Not Sam or Alastair. Dean, Cas and Anna, probably, as they wouldn’t know any better.

The vessel Lucifer takes will be Nick. The Special Children all killed each other long ago. Lucifer will try to occupy Sam, to sway him to acceptance.

The Four Horsemen begin infecting the world with war and death and famine and the croatoan virus. (which sam is immune to) People starving, killing each other, pure chaos. There are horrifying natural disasters. Biblical plagues.

Castiel surely wishes to find God. They never find him. Crowley gives Dean and co. (including Bobby, Ellen and Jo surely) the Colt. Not sure why. I guess cause he likes humans or something. The colt does not kill Lucifer.

IN THE MEANWHILE this whole time Alastair has been keeping Sam at home, rarely leaving. Gabriel can only contact Sam through the cellphone he slipped him in 2006. Gabriel himself, is, of course lying low and hiding, following Sam and Alastair around the country and of course Alastair knows he’s there but doesn’t care.

2008: Jessica does not die, in all the chaos. Chaos prevents her getting a degree though. She is smart. She hides with other students in the abandoned school. She and Sam meet when possible but are mostly long-distance there for each other. somehow their cellphones work and maybe it's a little bit of magic. Or maybe the satellites and towers are still functioning somehow.

Dean, Cas, Anna, and those on their team manage to stop the horsemen very narrowly. There are still disasters, and Croatoan still spreads. They do not know how to cure it. The world is crumbling. It is like The End, but Lucifer does not have a home of roses.

Finally, in 2009, Dean agrees to be Michael’s vessel, despite everyone trying to convince him not to. Nick is falling apart but he is all Lucifer has. Gabriel’s friends, gods and goddesses, do not intervene in the petty squabbles of Michael and Lucifer. Kali learns of Gabriel’s true identity and dismisses him. He loves her but he knows when to quit.

Lucifer flees Michael. Hides. Tries to kill Sam out of spite and rage that he will not be his vessel. Threatens him. He kills Alastair. Sam is alone. Gabriel protects him, keeps him from being seen by Lucifer and helps him through his angel blood withdrawal. Luckily, as an Archangel, he can give him small drops to ease him off. The thing is angel blood is not addictive in the same way as demon blood. But it hurts to stop using.

They stay with Jessica and the other college students in the abandoned school, surrounded by protective sigils and other things from Gabriel. A practical force field that keeps out demons, Croats, and passes under Lucifer’s radar as well as other angels’ radars.

Dean ends up rejecting Michael when they do not find Lucifer. Michael’s pissed and there’s not much he can do. It’s more convenient to be in his true form to search at this point, anyway.

The protection around the abandoned Stanford campus actually leads Dean to finding Sam because…. He sees this compound but Anna and Cas don’t, and they’re like “what the fuck” so they investigate. Dean can get in, humans can get in, but not Anna or Castiel. Eventually Gabriel lets them in. The reunion is emotional. Now all the major players are together. Jo, Dean, Sam, Gabe, Jess, Anna, Cas, Bobby, Ellen, Jody probably joined at some point.

HEY: When Sam and Dean and everyone meet up the first time multiple things:

"I thought you'd be taller" Cas says to sam when they meet. Dean on the other hand is amazed at how tall sam is cause he was just a kid when taken. This is all after handshakes, signing, someone all "Are you deaf?" sam: "No I'm mute"  Dean: "But you can talk" Castiel gives him The Look and does that explain-y thing he does. Sure Gabriel is like "Just cause he can talk SOMETIMES doesn't mean he's not mute" which is probably what leads to the convo about it.

Sam needs an anti-possession tattoo.

An interesting point: Once Dean enters the compound he blinks out of existence for Michael. This is weird and probably would raise suspicion. In addition, Gabriel had already engraved Sam’s bones with Enochian protection, and Cas and Anna had done it with Dean’s ribs but Gabe shows them how to do the rest. This protection makes it so no angel can sense them, not even the ones who put the sigils on. Of course that makes cell phones a necessity and it’s unlikely that either ventures out alone due to the chance of something happening and the angels not being able to find them.

Lucifer is still in hiding as well, Michael still roaming, and the world is just Fucked Up.

Many demons and angels have died in the war, many humans and animals. Other beings, monsters, minor deities. It’s terrible.

It’s 2010 or 2011, and Lucifer finds the Stanford compound by threats and demons possessing humans, and though he cannot get in he can still camp around and wait for Sam to come out…. Or Dean, or anyone. This becomes a problem, as they need to be able to like…. Get food and stuff.

Sam doesn’t want anyone to die so… he leaves and lets Lucifer claim him. Much to the loud protests of literally everyone. And his body is not as full of angel blood so while it pains Lucifer, it doesn’t purge him. This however is the key…

Gabriel sacrifices himself.

First: He tells Dean to let Michael find him. Erases his protection so that Michael can immediately pinpoint Dean's location and rush in.

Second: Sam is able to keep Lucifer from killing those he loves, with the deal of having let him use his body. Lucifer wanders far and rains great destruction on the planet.

Third: Lucifer continues to hide from Michael as best he can.

Fourth: Gabriel and Lucifer fight in a place that Michael cannot see. Gabriel loses, he knows he will lose, that is his plan. Gabriel manages to injure Lucifer but he is fatally wounded, bleeding profusely, and says to Sam “like Eucharist wine” before basically forcing his blood into Lucifer-Sam’s mouth. And Sam, despite housing Lucifer, cannot help but try to get all of his blood as he dies in his arms and basically this ejects Lucifer from Sam’s body, and there is Sam, crying and covered in blood with a dead archangel having burned his wings into Sam. His death shoots a huge burst into the universe, because energy cannot be destroyed—this is a beacon to Michael, who finds Lucifer wounded in his vulnerable state.

And out there, Michael in Dean destroys Lucifer. Obliterates the demon army with the help of other angels, sending all other demons and hellspawn back into Hell and bringing Paradise to Earth, as Raphael heals the land and the sick and the wounded with grace and stern care.

Sam goes back to find Jessica, and Cas and Anna and their whole family… Dean shows up as Michael has left him.

And they’re not quite sure what to do now.

But they can be happy to some extent.

There is a field of white lilies where Gabriel died. They never wilt or die.

Somewhere out there God walks the earth with the Archangels, singing and playing guitar.

 

HASHTAG MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH AWW YEAH why do i always do this

\----

 

Notes:

 

Convo about the muteness after meeting of brothers, cas etc.:

Dean "Well can't you just fix him?"

Cas "It's not—Dean, it's not a physical ailment. I would have to wipe over a decade's worth of memories and knowledge—"

Gabriel "It's not your right and it's not fair to Sam. He is not broken."

 

Angel blood: Cleanses the soul. Allows ability to see true forms of angels, demons, reapers, ghosts, etc.  Like how angels can see it all. Heals wounds.  Makes dizzy, makes the world swirl. After enough use, closing your eyes still shows an imprint of the world around more steady than the real world shifting and sliding. Heightens senses, increasing sensitivity to touch and texture, light, loud noises. Lends a blue UV angel glow tinge to everything just like the blood itself. Could be described as hallucinogenic, though hallucinations are considered fictional and some that angel blood does is… real. But some are fake. Changes perception of time. Feels either slow or fast or nonexistent.  Before becoming accustomed, may cause nausea and discomfort, burning throat, causing bright light behind the eyelids not visible to others. Bloatedness. Hunger. Ringing ears. Pins and needles. Solids look liquid and liquids look solid. Things move that shouldn’t. Swinging lights, etc. Acutely aware of everything. Paranoia, anxiety.  It is “non-addictive” but still habit forming. It still has withdrawal symptoms: nightmares, fever, cold flashes, nausea, trembling, bouts of only being able to see light, dizziness, headaches, low blood pressure.

 

Ah shit son I just remembered I still haven’t decided what I’m gonna do about John and Dean in this story

did they die when azazel kidnapped sam?????? have they been looking for him for the past seven years?? Without somehow giving up ever. I mean, I could kinda see Dean trying. Perhaps I could use that as a way to get Lucifer out of the Cage. Maybe maybe maybe…… Dean could have sold his soul not long after Sam went missing, you know. And this would be a 14 year old selling his soul aka someone without a lot of world experience. So just, “I’ll give you my soul if I can find Sammy.” He never said how soon. So… Find Sam, the very last day before they claim his soul? I mean it’s not like the crossroads demons would be clamoring to get on Alastair’s bad side after all, so I can easily see that happening. And then you get this 24 year old in hell, and he breaks the first Seal and so on and so forth. And then there’s that thing. 66 Seals out of 600 must be broken. So…. is Lilith still a required final Seal, I wonder. In any case I won’t technically have to deal with any of the Seals but a few considering just how sheltered Sam is. Lilith/some kind of Final Seal will still need to be covered of course.

Hmmmm

And then there’s Gabriel. Gabriel….. aka “Rick.” I imagine he’ll be sticking around for the next 3+ years of Sam’s life for sure, though maybe not as obvious for a while. Don’t want Alastair to find him. Maybe he could buy Sam a cellphone to contact him when he’s not at home w/ Alastair. Could text him or smth. Hmmm

 

Dean’s a hunter now

 

[1:26:56 PM] nadia: omfg

[1:29:36 PM] nadia: i'm not sure how much hallucinations should be cause by angel blood, in this fic. I mean I know SOME but I'm not sure how far it will extend...

[1:32:00 PM] Sonya: Like how I wanted a Grace!Gabe and then the fucker just kept going?

[1:32:12 PM] nadia: Right

[1:32:24 PM] nadia: Like.... small-- no? no? okay.... have fun being more hardcore then

[1:32:31 PM] Sonya: *nod*

[1:32:40 PM] Sonya: Are they good hallucinations or bad

[1:32:47 PM] nadia: Generally not good

[1:32:53 PM] nadia: not necessarily bad either but

[1:33:14 PM] nadia: I mean he's only had a little bit so far, so I'm not sure but I imagine they will probably get worse

[1:36:16 PM] Sonya: Guess it depends on how much angst and disturbing imagery you're going for

[1:36:35 PM] nadia: Well

[1:36:45 PM] nadia: it's already kinda screwy so i may as well go the whole way

[1:38:47 PM] nadia: probably pull some actual plot bullshit and deal with some like Seal breaking and Cage opening

[1:38:52 PM] nadia: and Dean killing

[1:38:54 PM] nadia: oops

[1:41:14 PM] Sonya: lawls

[1:41:53 PM] nadia: he's not even in the story anyway so I'm going to use demon deals and his alluded death to jumpstart the breaking of the Seals

[1:42:52 PM] nadia: idk i have been talking to myself about it trying to flesh out my plans

[1:43:47 PM] Sonya: Why are we breaking seals? Like, were you meant to go into canon?

[1:46:44 PM] nadia: No. Just because I want Lucifer to come out like-- but not cause of Sam cause Sam's generally p sheltered and actually. Alastair is like working against the Hell thing and Azazel. which is why he's giving Sam angel blood.  Like I said though I'm still not entirely sure but if it does happen then Gabriel is going to be involved more heavily in 1) getting Sam away from demons and 2) picking a side and fighting against Lucifer and trying to prevent the Apocalypse. Because he's become attached to this little human

[1:47:51 PM] Sonya: Oooh

[1:48:11 PM] Sonya: You could always have John be the one to jumpstart it

[1:48:29 PM] Sonya: They tried making him break the seal before he snuck his way out

[1:49:36 PM] nadia: I could. I do not like John so I could. But that involves me getting him dead somehow and in Hell. With Dean, I can easily imagine a 14 year old boy being desperate and making a deal to find his baby brother. John not so much, or at least he'd be smarter about it I feel like.

[1:49:50 PM] nadia: But idk I mean either way as long as I can get one of them in hell

[1:50:53 PM] Sonya: John sold his soul for Dean. You could have Dean get injured in a hunt or something and John go derp again

[1:51:13 PM] Sonya: "No, not mah other boi!"

[1:52:49 PM] nadia: That is true. Hmmmmm........... And I wonder if they're still searching for Sam or if they've given him up for dead. Because Sam got kidnapped by Azazel when he was 12 and now he's 18 with Alastair. So hmmmm....  I could see Dean getting injured earlier on, not long after Sam disappeared. Like dying for some reason or other and John making that deal then, and then he'd be in Hell around the time Sam is like .... 22??

[1:54:03 PM] Sonya: Wasn't that when Dean pulled him from Stanford? Or really close to it?

[1:54:42 PM] nadia: in show? yeah, 22 or 23

 

  


“Alastair seems to flicker, and suddenly there is a steel stool—of the taupe-painted variety you find in science classrooms, with a plywood seat—under his hand.“

wow shit it’s been so long since i looked at this that i forgot i did this.

you know how beings in spn just materialize shit? i took it a weird direction and made it so that alastair actually teleports to grab things so that when he materializes something it’s not materialization at all… i think i had that as the plan for all the materializing beings including gabriel later on

[#shit boy i blow my own mind. actually i think it's a really cool idea.....](https://www.tumblr.com/tagged/shit-boy-i-blow-my-own-mind.-actually-i-think-it%27s-a-really-cool-idea.....) [#i forget if it's ONLY teleportation or --well obviously it would be a combo of teleportation and time freezing](https://www.tumblr.com/tagged/i-forget-if-it%27s-ONLY-teleportation-or---well-obviously-it-would-be-a-combo-of-teleportation-and-time-freezing) [#but i forget if sometimes he just stops time and goes to get something and comes back rather than teleporting](https://www.tumblr.com/tagged/but-i-forget-if-sometimes-he-just-stops-time-and-goes-to-get-something-and-comes-back-rather-than-teleporting) [#like i said it's been a while and i honestly did not put down details like that in my notes](https://www.tumblr.com/tagged/like-i-said-it%27s-been-a-while-and-i-honestly-did-not-put-down-details-like-that-in-my-notes)

 

Alastair opposes the release of Lucifer because he doesn’t want his “domain to be flooded with bodies.” He finds humans fascinating, likes to experiment on them, torture them, play with them. Lucifer and Michael’s battlepocalypse destroying the world would be bad.

“66 Seals would be broken and that Lucifer would escape the Cage, bringing about the Apocalypse.” Then the Horsemen would help him destroy humanity and the planet, and Michael taking Dean as his vessel would kill Lucifer and bring what is left of the destroyed planet to Paradise which would likely force all demons back into Hell. No fun for Alastair. That or all humans would be destroyed by Lucifer after beating Michael. Also no fun.

The plans to destroy the earth are: War to cause humans to kill each other, famine to starve them of their basic needs, pestilence to infect them with Croatoan... and Death, held captive, to ferry them to Hell.

There is going to be a straight-up Apocalypse like, Dean cannot stop this on his own or even with Anna and Castiel’s help. It all rides on stubbornness and Sam’s unsuitability as a vessel to prevent Lucifer from winning, but Paradise isn’t what anyone wants either. Alastair’s goal is for Lucifer and Michael to kill each other. But what is Gabriel’s role in all this? Where is Raphael? Supporting Michael to cleanse the earth. Disappointed as they are in the bloodshed of humanity. Upper Management WANTS Lucifer released so Michael can kill him.

What about the Antichrist, Jesse Turner. Can Dean help him alone? Castiel: there is a crack in his chassis. He joins Dean, having been drawn to his energy, when the first seal is broken. They find Anna.

“[Azazel](http://supernatural.wikia.com/wiki/Azazel) found the entrance to Lucifer's Cage at[ St. Mary's Convent](http://supernatural.wikia.com/wiki/St._Mary%27s_Convent). He contacted Lucifer, who told him of his plans: Azazel was to free[ Lilith](http://supernatural.wikia.com/wiki/Lilith), the first demon, from Hell so that she could break the 66 Seals. In addition, Azazel was also tasked with finding a[ special child](http://supernatural.wikia.com/wiki/Special_Children) strong enough to kill Lilith, thereby breaking the Final Seal, as well capable of serving as Lucifer's Vessel for the final battle against Michael.“ Who will break the final seal if the special children all killed each other? Alastair would know enough to prevent Sam doing so. As would Gabriel.

 

Info on Angels:

TRUE FORMS IN HEAVEN AND HELL: not the same as trueforms attached to vessels. You see, attached to vessels, using angel blood or whatever, this beam of light at this height that is just like swarming with wings or whatever notable thing. kind of like that water in Anastasia. Eyes, limbs, faces, swirling up into the sky. But in Heaven or Hell, while in the show they use vessels, in this it will be those monstrous true forms described below with the specific colors and weapons and stuff. Angels come in light, blue-white with a hint of the colors of their other true form.  Demons come in smoke, matching their rank. (ie white eyes = white smoke, red eyes red smoke)

The way the Christian hierarchy of angels works is they're ordered from physically closest to God to physically closest to Earth. So, Seraphim and Cherubim and Ophanim are in the first sphere, because they're extreme energy, completely devoted to serving God, sing his praises - which ties into 'music is magic' as Chuck said - blah blah. These three are depicted often as creatures or having creature features. Seraphim have six wings, one covering eyes, one to fly with, and the third to cover their lower body - mostly groin. Also likened with fire, sometimes. But so are Cherubim, which have four wings, arms, and they also are described as having... kinda... cloven feet like a newborn calf? That burns/shines like burnished metal? Ophanim are living wheels, or some shit, with eyes at the spokes. They're controlled by the Cherubim to carry God's throne.

Considering there is much debate as to whether gabriel exploded 4 or 6 wings.... hmm now i have to choose.... i like the burnished metal hooves thing but i dunno if sam would be able to see that

[10:29:28 AM] Sonya: They're always depicted as humanoid, though with many wings, sometimes with many eyes on said wings, but - on Earth - they're the average joe

[10:29:46 AM] Sonya: The many wings thing comes mostly from Islam and the Book of Enoch for the Archangels. Archangels are a step above angels, in regards to how close they are to Earth. And Archangels, though seen as the best because they command the different spheres and have communed with God personally, interact with humanity A LOT. But this also makes them susceptible to corruption

I'm going with, the Archangels are Archangels in Title and not archangels in form. The Archangels while not archangels are probably seraphs and other high-up angels.

"Archangels were harder to make and are harder to revive as they were formed from such powerful primordial energies of creation which no longer exist.[[3]](http://supernatural.wikia.com/wiki/Archangels#cite_note-We_Happy_Few-2) They were created in this order: [Michael](http://supernatural.wikia.com/wiki/Michael), [Lucifer](http://supernatural.wikia.com/wiki/Lucifer), [Raphael](http://supernatural.wikia.com/wiki/Raphael), and [Gabriel](http://supernatural.wikia.com/wiki/Gabriel)." Another Archangel of the 7 (8 if you include Lucifer) is Uriel.

The 7 Archangels can be described as "the seven highest Seraphim, Michael being the highest of all" But I'm gonna go with the top 4 as seraphim, and the others as whatever else, thrones, cherubim, what matters is the Archangel rank that gives them extra power and pull.

I think Cas is a principality. We're gonna skip the seraph stuff for him that happens in the show.

"The Principalities are shown wearing a crown and carrying a [sceptre](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sceptre). Their duty also is said to be to carry out the orders given to them by the upper sphere angels and bequeath blessings to the material world."

 

True forms:

There's the true face Sam can see on the vessel which is a mirror of the True Face on the True Form. It's because that controls the vessels face. Other actions are kind of puppeted by the true form's movements, like a jaeger? They're linked.

Gabriel is so tall Sam would not be able to see his head. And Gabriel's the shortest of the seraphic Archangels. Castiel even is too tall (roughly the size of the Chrysler Building) to see his face clearly but his head might be made out. Alastair is a little taller.

 

**Alastair** has white eyes, six horns and two pair of wings and scary claws and jutting bone outcrops. He can crouch and his head will be just above the trees but if he stands he is taller than the Chrysler building. His face is skull-like without fangs. Once pure white but now blood stained.

**Lilith** is another white-eyed demon with six horns and two pairs of wings. She is the height of Anna. She is higher ranking and more powerful, pure white and golden.

The _cherubim_ use their human face to control the vessel face so you can't see the true 4 heads but those are up in the sky.  They have bronzed, golden hooves, their heads are 1 human 1 bovine 1 feline and 1 bird.

The _seraphim_ (Gabriel, Lucifer, Michael, Raphael, Uriel) have two faces, halo is 3 thin concentric rings of light or metal that kind of bisect the head. 6 wings, 2 covering the eyes, 2 covering the "feet" (genitalia), 2 to fly.  I have decided rather than arms they have hands on their wings like dinosaurs. Their legs are sometimes more human sometimes digitigrade. The wings cover with one on the front and one behind, so both faces are hidden, but only crotch is hidden. Their top two wings sprout from spine and collar, their middle from the shoulders like arms and their bottom from the base of their spine.

The youngest of the top 4, **Gabriel** smells of lilies and pears. He carries a golden horn. He is lily-white with silver and gold halo rings. White wings, white everything, but his 6 eyes (3 per face, 2 normal 1 forehead) are deepest red and his middle flight wings are golden. His foot wings are stunted but still cover him well enough. Stout with a stomach, pearlescent, and golden hooved. His laugh is that of a stream and his shout is as loud as a waterfall. He can make it rain whenever he feels like it but I mean, so can all the Archangels. He just has better control over water and similar substances. He has five fingers with golden nails. and palms.

**Raphael** smells of lemons, almonds and lavender. They are blindfolded with fish skin sewn to the face. Long neck. Feathers on limbs and wings, wide open mouth. Birdlike feet. They hold a long staff or spear. Body is dark, greenish, wings are gold and green. Halo rings are like mercury. Eyes under the blindfold are golden and they have 4 per face. They sway in the breeze that follows them and fly and move like the most elegant of birds. Their teeth are fangs and their 4 fingers are long and clawed. Their body is bony and thin. They have the best control over wind but also lightning/storms/clouds.

**Lucifer** smells of ice and blood. He is pale and translucent, frosty. Pink, blue and white wings. His halo is gone. He makes cold blue flames that burn with frostbite. He's a little fucked up. His wings are tattered and he must walk. He is covered in sores from frost. He is huge and sturdy and barrel chested, leaning forward with strong digitigrade legs. He lets off a fog and all he touches becomes cold and frosty. His eyes are blue like that special ice in the north and he has 18 eyes all over his head not left to faces. His mouth hangs open letting out fog. He has six blistered fingers per hand with long claws. He has a heavy brow. Obviously has the best control over cooling temperatures, ice and snow and rime and frost.

**Michael** smells of oranges and smoke and is the oldest. He burns with fire and wields a sword. His legs are the most human but still a little strange. He has 3 eyes per face and one on the top of his head. Unlike Gabriel the third eye per face is in his mouth. His eyes are black but unlike a demon have a spark of gold in them. He drips ashes and sparks. His wings are black and the edges of the feathers smolder. His legs are blackened but the rest of his skin is the color of bronze and subtly speckled. He has six long blackened fingers per hand, red nails like short blunt claws. He is straight-backed and muscular. Strongest control over fire and hot temperatures.

**Uriel** : The throne Archangel. His halo is a platinum colored disc. His wings are similar in size to Gabriel's foot wings, tucked under a robe most of the time. He smells like mangos, bananas. His feathers are blue and green. He has 2 eyes on the front and three on the back of his head and his eyes are silver. He has a wand that is both platinum and copper and has an iris stone on the end. He is dark thus his vessel being dark-skinned, and he has a silver beard and no hair. More humanoid than the seraphic Archangels but still weird and supernatural. Sturdy and solid. Strongest control over earth. Earthquakes, dirt, etc. like an earth bender.

**Castiel** has a human face and a single pair of crow-like wings. He has arms. A crown rather than a halo floating (rotating) over his head, and a scepter with a glowing orb. His colors are black, dark blue, dark green, and his scepter and crown are like hematite. The orb is bright blue glowing like his eyes. His body is silver and he wears a black robe.

**Anna** is a fallen cherub, ranking higher than many, maybe even once an Archangel. She smells like apples and roses. Taller than Castiel with long hairy arms and sharp nails. Golden-bronze hooves, nails, teeth and halos. Human face with red hair considering she was born into her own body which affected her true form. She has a lion-like reddish body, with of course bovine legs. Four tattered red-copper wings with little black eyes on them. Any showing skin is parchment colored. Deep red-black eyes. Her bovine head is a Jersey cow, her feline is a mountain lion, her avian head is a golden eagle. front human her right cow her left lion, rear bird. She used to be closer in size to Gabriel but after ripping her Grace out and falling and being reborn she shrunk a little and got a bit less red.

**Azazel** is the yellow eyed demon, bigger than Alastair w/ four horns and four wings and two faces on one head. Skull-like, again, with long fang like canines.

The big ones equivalent to the seraphic Archangels are the knights of hell. They are kind of like demon versions of Archangels, so there's **Abaddon** with six wings and two faces and six horns like those Satan goats.

White-eyed demons are more powerful at attacking than Knights but Knights are stronger against attacks so neither is really better than the other but have different strengths.

The white-eyed demons include Lilith and Alastair, and are very powerful but not quiiiite to Archangel levels. Also they are not as tall for some unknown reason.

 


End file.
